


Twitterpated

by S_Faith



Series: Twitterpatery [1]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Inspired by Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What if Twitter had existed during the first film?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Have used actual official Twitter account names for Bridget and Mark. Also made tweets a different font and colour. And yes, the tweets are all fewer than 140 characters. I checked. ;)
> 
> [Import note: 140 was the limit at the time this was written. Also, AO3 doesn't allow different fonts and colours, so I've had to bold them.]

_Just after the New Year_

He was beginning to think he'd live to regret joining this particular club.

It made sense, it really did, for all of the partners in chambers to establish their own presence in the social media arena. It was something they had all endeavoured to do over the Christmas holiday; a terrific way to broaden their visibility, both as individual barristers and as a group, and equally terrific to keep abreast of the latest activities for worthy organisations such as Amnesty International. Some of the barristers, however, took to social media more easily and comfortably than others… and not strictly for work purposes.

"Did you see that thing I just retweeted?"

This was Jeremy at his shoulder. He had to laugh at Jeremy's enthusiasm. "No, Jeremy, I have not," he said. "We're not all as obsessed as you are with this."

"It's really funny. You should read it."

"I should be reviewing my briefs for this afternoon."

Jeremy chortled. "It's a hundred and forty characters' worth of funny, Darcy. It's not going to take you all bloody day."

He sighed in an overdramatic manner, then tapped on a few places on his mobile's screen, bringing the Twitter application to the forefront. The page auto-refreshed and displayed the tweet that Jeremy had shared.

**Why can't marrieds get that 'How's your love life?' is not polite question to ask? Don't rush to THEM roaring, 'Still having sex?', do we?**

"Funny, isn't it, eh?" said Jeremy.

He had to admit the message had made him chuckle, this missive from Jeremy's Twitter friend, which was made even funnier because the tirade could easily have been addressed directly to the married man. "Yes, quite."

Jeremy rolled his eyes. "You are really the stiff to end all stiffs," he said with a laugh. "So how was your holiday, hm?"

He would have preferred not to think about it: embarrassing family responsibility, an outing with his parents, and face to face with a woman in whom he'd had little interest and with whom he'd had little patience. "It was fine," he said tersely. "Now, to those briefs."

Jeremy chuckled again. "Still not got lucky, have ya?"

He pretended not to hear.

He did have every intention of reading his briefs for the afternoon as he ate his lunch at his desk, but the tiny image that accompanied the shared tweet—the retweet—kept causing him to look to the mobile. Struck by curiosity, he moved through the screens, then tapped on her tweet a few times to get directly to her page.

Her name also caught his attention. It was not a common name, and was coincidentally one shared with the woman he'd faced on New Year's Day. Coincidence, that was all it was, but certainly a curious one.

As he watched, her timeline refreshed itself again. 

**Hols over. Am now supposed to snap back into racing form like lean teenaged greyhound when only crave telly, chocolate & wine. Unfair!**

The mental image of this made him laugh again, but a knock on his door prompted him to switch off the mobile lest he be caught viewing a personal page. Not that he would have gotten in trouble, but it was a matter of pride. 

After all, Mark Darcy had to remain above perusing social media websites for personal enjoyment, and his visitor got his undivided attention as they conversed on a case.

As soon as he was alone, though, he was struck with the impulse to look once more. This time he opened a window on his laptop, navigated to his timeline (which wasn't that busy) and then clicked on Jeremy's retweet.

There was her name. Bridget. And, he realised, her photo, which popped up just as he opened the page as a new message. _A new tweet,_ he corrected himself. It took him a moment to fully comprehend what he was seeing, though: the woman in the photo was familiar. New Year's Day familiar. The name was no mere coincidence.

Her appearance in the photo compared to how she'd looked on the holiday was as different as night was from day. He had thought that there had been something attractive about her features, but it had all been overwhelmed by her attire, a rather horrible, stiff dress seemingly made of tapestry fabric. In this photograph, however, she was looking at the camera with a challenge in her eye and smiling in an unguarded, unrehearsed manner. As best as he could tell, she was dressed in a casual knit top that clung to her shoulders—probably more, he thought, but the photo only showed so much.

His astonishment was unmatched, as was his curiosity to see if she had mentioned the details of her New Year's holiday at all. He did not have to scroll far back at all. The tweet that talked about her New Year's was right there, near the top:

**Pretty funny to be called Darcy & stand alone & snooty at a party. Might as well be called Heathcliff, stand in garden & yell for Cathy!**

More surprising to him, however, was that it had garnered—

" _A hundred-forty_ retweets?" he asked aloud to no one. Including one from the Jane Austen Centre in Bath! He then noticed her number of followers: 1,995. Far from a tragic, lonely spinster. He only had a small percentage of that; he tried to console himself with the fact that he hadn't been on long, and to date had only used it professionally.

He read on.

**Rude bloody bastard with mad hair beyond any opera freak have ever known, plus #ReindeerJumper #noreally**

Without conscious thought he reached up to smooth down his hair; he realised he had been insufferably unkind to her and for no other reason that his mother had put him up to talking to her. _Let's be honest_ , he thought. _Mother pressured me into talking to her._

**New Year's Eve. Wahoo! #buggeroffsadFM**

After a moment's hesitation he clicked on the attached image. He could not stop the low "Hm" that burbled up in his throat.

She wore a short dress of shiny black fabric, heeled black shoes, her blonde hair down and loose; like the other person in the photo—a man, though unknown if friend or date—she was in mid-jump (clearly heading up, given the position of the dress' hem) with her arms over her head. They both had broad smiles in place and empty wine glasses in hand as if waiting for a top-up.

He sat back, processing the new information he had just gathered. Even if the man wasn't a boyfriend—and subsequent photos showed him hugging her in a most possessive way, so it was not easy to dismiss—she clearly had a vibrant social life. Her tweets suggested she had been as equally compelled to attend the New Year's Day party as he had, had been just as pressured into a meeting with him… but she at least had not been unspeakably rude about it like he had.

The guilt he felt over his boorish behaviour, however, was offset by his pique that she would mock him publicly for her enjoyment… and the world's. She clearly thought he was an idiot, and she was not shy about broadcasting this opinion.

He moved the mouse to hover over the Follow button, but after a moment of thought, he decided not to; he thought it best not to alert her to the fact that he'd found her online. Instead, he would continue to watch her timeline through the web page.

_God_ , he thought with a chuckle, _I sound like an obsessed lunatic._

………

A day or two later, he realised he was beginning to act like an obsessed lunatic; he was bringing the page up for a read at every given opportunity. Reluctantly he admitted that her writing was very witty; her observations from her meetings, conversations with friends, and musings in general often caused him to chuckle. He did notice her tendency during the weekday to apparently flirt more than work, a habit of which he disapproved. He wondered if her boss knew she was spending so much time blathering on Twitter, and guessed probably not. 

On Friday night, he made the grave error of opening the page while eating his supper. As the night went on, it became increasingly clear that she was imbibing more and more alcohol and getting quite pissed.

**OBOY. T bought drinks. Tequila = spirits of Satan! Yet drink anyway, wheeee.**

He could not help but think with amusement that Saturday's tweets would either be few and far between, or would be packed with groans, moans and other hung-over lamentations. 

One thing became abundantly clear: he was growing to like her very much, based on little more than what she'd written online. _There was also the smile_ , he thought, which he had been considering frequently. But the words were definitely what continued to draw him back to her page.

………

This casual follow on his part continued for some days; he didn't know whether it stemmed from his pride or his embarrassment from New Year's, but he didn't want to actually follow her, did not want her to know he was reading her words. He noticed more and more that Jeremy retweeted her missives, sometimes with commentary, and he wondered how exactly Jeremy knew Bridget… and how well, given his colleague's wandering eye.

"So," Mark asked nonchalantly as they lunched together one sunny Wednesday, "does your wife know you spend a good portion of your day chirping to pretty blondes?"

"Chirping?" he asked, bringing his brows together for a moment before laughing. "Oh, you mean tweeting."

"Yes."

"And you mean… to Bridge?" Jeremy asked then laughed again. "Bridget's one of Magda's best friends!"

"Ah," Mark said. Small world.

Jeremy chewed his food, giving Mark a sidelong glance, then swallowed and asked, "Think she's pretty, do you?"

"I think anyone would be mad not to think so," Mark retorted stiffly.

"An opinion apparently _not_ shared by all," said Jeremy, tapping the table with his fork's handle. "I mean, there was that poor deluded fellow on New Year's…"

Mark groaned inwardly, though he was honestly a bit grateful that Jeremy had assumed the reference to "Darcy" had been some kind of literary code and not literal.

Jeremy continued, "…and boy, did she ever give him a right savaging online, _and_ in our dining room, too! Well-deserved, I thought. She had us howling. Poor bugger's ears—and his bloody ugly jumper—were probably ringing."

This rankled him. He may have said unkind things to his mother in a vent of frustrated anger, but he had never intended for her to hear his words. She, on the other hand, had been deliberately ridiculing him, which in many ways was worse than a direct insult.

"Mark? Are you okay? The tips of your ears are going all red."

Mark pursed his lips and had another bite of his sandwich. "I'm fine."

He continued to think about it— _stew on it, more like_ , he thought—but refrained from writing all of the tweets he composed in his head. As satisfying as that may have been, he did not want to tip his hand.

The self-control he thought he had, however, shattered that evening at the sight of an innocent remark meant as a reply to someone he presumed was one of her friends:

**Right? Almost as bad as having a reindeer-jumper wearer criticising your dress! #harhar**

Before he could think better of it, he had opened a reply message and responded.

**May want to consider that wearing the jumper was to please the person who gave it.**

Adrenalin surged through him; there was no escaping her notice now, not with his name and photo on the account. 

After a few seconds, a reply came in, though not what he expected, from Jeremy.

**OMG that was u? A ha ha ha.**

This was followed shortly by something from Bridget herself.

**AHA, the man himself! Do you think I wore a carpet because I get off on that sort of thing? #tapestryfetish**

The quickness and sharpness of her reply took him aback. Immediately this was followed by another:

**Will completely own up to smoking like chimney and drinking like fish, though. Only way to survive party. Your excuse?**

He felt as if he'd been buffeted with a one-two punch, and was gauging his reply when one came up to both himself and Bridget from someone he didn't know called Tom, who bore a striking resemblance to the man in Bridget's New Year photo: **A fight! A REAL FIGHT! :-D**

A second came up from Jeremy: **Hold on there, let me make popcorn lol**

Mark immediately replied to tell Jeremy to be quiet, and was amused that she did the same, then she asked of Jeremy:

**So how do you know ol' reindeer jumper anyway?**

Jeremy's response made Mark want to drop down into a hole: **We work together. He's a good guy, Bee, & now he thinks ur v pretty.**

He braced himself for the response he was sure to get, but none came. That was almost worse. In frustration he exhaled roughly, then closed the application.

Not before clicking the Follow button, however.

………

_Mid-January_

There had been no further conversations with her on Twitter, and as the days passed, he noticed that she had not followed back. It seemed to be courtesy to do so, but he supposed he hadn't really endeared himself much to her, and admittedly, he wasn't a particularly compelling tweeter.

At least, not nearly as compelling as she was. She turned the most mundane things into nuggets of amusement—usually with a healthy dose of self-deprecation—and he found he looked forward to seeing her messages every day.

Almost two weeks had passed since the ill-fated New Year's Day when Jeremy invited him to a dinner party he and his wife were throwing. He had been invited to dinner many times before, had always had a pleasant enough time, so he accepted, never giving it a second thought. 

He realised that he should have been a bit suspicious of the timing.

Jeremy's wife greeted him at the door. "Hello, Mark!" she said brightly, taking the bottle of wine he'd picked up; it was an almost maniacal brightness, he realised. "So very glad you could make it. We have a full house tonight!"

"That's… nice," he said, feeling slightly perplexed.

"You know where to put your coat," she went on, examining the bottle. "I'll take this to the kitchen to let it breathe; oh, fantastic vintage, Mark, as always."

As she walked away, he slipped out of his coat and hung it on the rack with several others, then walked to the sitting room, where he heard the murmur of voices in conversation. The room did indeed seem to be filled; there were men and women alike, and he scanned the crowd. Many were acquaintances he had seen at past dinners. One he knew from other circumstances. 

Bridget.

He felt ambushed, knew in an instant that Jeremy and his wife had colluded to arrange this. Just as his gaze lit upon her, Bridget looked up, and their eyes met. Her surprise was obvious in the way her brows lifted ever so slightly, but she looked smoothly back to the person with whom she was talking, as if completely unaffected.

Mark quickly learned that, sparked by the recent news of a highly publicised adoption by a male celebrity who was single, the overarching topic of the evening centred around parenting and then inevitably to so-called traditional gender roles. It came as no surprise to him that the women present, Bridget excepted, did not work outside of the home, and they seemed to unanimously (and vociferously) think it was a bad idea for anyone to try to go it alone. This conversation dominated drinks, dinner and even into dessert.

"As long as there's the support of a network of friends and even family," she countered, "that child will feel loved. It doesn't matter if there's only one parent—if that parent is giving it all they've got."

"But what about support inside the home?" said one of the women, Fiona.

"Do _you_ feel supported inside the home?" Bridget countered. "Or do you work your arse off while your husband comes home, eats dinner, cracks open a beer and watches the football?"

This, within earshot of said husband, Cosmo, who said, "Hey!"

"I agree," said Mark.

"Thank you," said Bridget.

"No, I mean I agree that support is needed within the home," he said. "You're overgeneralising wildly."

"Am I?" asked Bridget. "Have you noticed that not one of the men present has gotten off of his bottom tonight to help in either making, serving, or cleaning up after dinner? For all the talk we've had of equality of household tasks, there sure has not been evidence of it tonight."

Mark felt momentarily stunned and embarrassed, because what she said was absolutely and unequivocally true. "You are wilfully misinterpreting what I'm saying. And what you're saying is still an overgeneralisation," he said. "One night is not a fair data sample."

"This happens every single time," said Bridget. She then narrowed her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. "How long have you known Magda and Jeremy?"

"Six years."

"And you've been here for dinner many times before?"

"Yes."

"So if I were to ask you to go into their kitchen right now and find the gravy boat, you could walk right in and find it, could you?"

He snorted dismissively. "That's ridiculous. Of course not."

"Mark doesn't even know where his own gravy boat is," Jeremy said with a laugh.

Bridget's head snapped to look back at her friend Fiona. "Woney," she said. "Where does the gravy boat get kept?"

Without hesitation, Fiona answered, "Cupboard over the vent fan, left side." Magda nodded.

Bridget tilted her head, raising a brow, challenging him without words.

Clearing his throat, Mark said, "This hardly seems to have anything to do with _single_ parenting."

She blew air out through her lips. "No cogent argument, so change the subject. Fine. I'll spell it out for you. We women are perfectly capable of raising children on our own," she said, "because most of us in so-called 'partnerships' are already doing so. Their partners, their husbands, are in many ways just like having another child to tend to."

"Ah. So by your own logic, your own reasoning," Mark countered, "that single fellow who adopted should have that child removed from the house for possible endangerment."

Bridget's face flushed red-hot, and she said, "Clearly some men have _evolved_ and learnt to take care of themselves and children. It does show there's hope for the rest of you."

He chuckled low under his breath. "You have no idea how incredibly sexist you sound," he said, sipping his coffee.

At this her mouth dropped open. "Sexist?!" she exclaimed. "This coming from a man who refers to unmarried women as 'spinsters'?"

The entire room had gone dead silent, he realised, except for the two of them; when he glanced to the side, he realised the rest of the crowd were hanging on their every word.

"That is the literal definition of the word," he said, "though I apologise for my use of it and for any negative connotations that might have inadvertently been attached. That doesn't negate the fact that, yes, to make generalisations about all men based on stereotypes is indeed sexist."

She stared, then laughed. "Jesus, you are _such_ a bloody lawyer." Instead of a conciliatory counter-apology, however, she added, "It's not a generalisation when it has, time and again, been proven as fact. Now, if you'll excuse me, my poor little spinster self requires a fag, because as _you_ are very much aware, I'm practically a _chimney_." She grabbed her purse and strode past him for the French windows.

_Maddening_ , he thought as he watched her walk away, his eyes settling in a most unfortunate manner on her backside, which was clad in a snug miniskirt—

He took a step forward to follow her in order to continue the argument, but was stopped by a hand clapping him hard on the shoulder. Jeremy. "That was bloody _brilliant_ ," his friend said. "To be honest, half-expected you two to start shagging at the end there."

"You're out of your mind," he said, though he could not deny the palpable tension that had built between them. "Besides, she finds me repulsive."

Jeremy laughed again. "Now _that_ I doubt," he said. "Your taste in clothing, maybe, but…"

Mark rolled his eyes. "I am never going to live down that bloody jumper."

"If I can be serious, Mark," he said, "she's too nice to truly think ill of anyone. She may have strong opinions and defend them loudly—especially under the influence of wine—but underneath it all she's one of the more kind-hearted people I've ever known."

He glanced outside, where he saw her in profile, the lit end of her cigarette flaring as she took in a deep breath. 

As the dinner party wound down and started to break up, Mark approached her as she slipped on her coat, hoping to offer something of an olive branch. "If you need a lift home," he said, "I'd be happy to give you one."

"I'm fine, thanks," she said, buttoning the coat.

"Oh, don't be stupid, Bee," said Magda. "You'll never get a minicab at this hour."

"I'll walk," she declared.

"Don't be—" he began.

She narrowed her eyes. "Ridiculous? Foolish? Childish?"

"Stubborn," he finished. "There's no logical reason for you _not_ to accept, and every reason _for_ you to accept."

"Except _you_ might be a serial murderer."

He laughed; he couldn't help it. So did Magda. "Now _that_ is ridiculous," said Magda.

She had no further argument to brook; she pursed her lips, shot a glare at Magda, then conceded. "Thank you, then," she said.

In silence and in the relative darkness of a moonless night, they set out in Mark's car from Magda's house. Finally he asked, "You're going to have to give me some idea where I'm going."

"Head towards your own place," she said coolly. "After all, I only live 'round the corner from you."

He drew up to a light, stopped as it changed. "Look, I'm really sorry about lashing out at the Turkey Curry Buffet," he said, turning to look at her, at the red glow of the traffic light washing over her face. She met his gaze. "I was frustrated at my mother's constant pushing me at you, I was… well, I never meant you to hear or for it to hurt your feelings."

She blinked then looked away, directly forward again, as the cast on her face turned to green. "Go."

He exhaled, feeling equally frustrated at his inability to communicate now, as he pulled forward and continued on their way.

"Why didn't you say something at the time?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," he said. "I should have. Maybe I was just grateful that my mother would think that was the end of it, that she'd stop pestering me. Then I come to find out… well, I might have liked talking to you, after all."

She scoffed. "Even though you'd disagree with me if I said the sky was blue."

He grinned. "Right now, it rather isn't."

This made her laugh. "Fair point."

They were getting nearer to his house, so he asked again where to take her. This time she told him her proper address, and they pulled to the kerb within a few minutes. As was his habit he got out, opened her door, and walked with her to the front of her building.

"Thank you for the driving home," she said as she turned to face him. "It would have been silly to walk home after all."

"I know."

"Though I could have made it from the car and into my front door unscathed."

"One never knows."

She smiled, then fished into her bag for her keys. Shaking them, she said, "Well. Good night."

"Good night."

As she got inside, he returned to his car, and engaged the engine to head to his house. He wore a grin the entire time; it felt very nice to have mended fences with her.

Or so he thought.

The next morning he fired up his Twitter application, half-expecting a notification that Bridget had followed him in return. Instead, he saw an extension/continuation of their argument, with several tweets in the following vein:

**Dinner party included delusional convo w/@markdarcylegal, re: men pulling equal weight in raising kids, helping 'round house, etc.**

**Illuminating/illustrative that none of the men present took it upon themselves to help the entire night. Left it to women.**

**Note to men: twiddling fork under the tap does not equal doing the washing up.**

He felt his temper flare up (justifiably so, he thought), and he had to respond: **Delusional? You miss the point again, deliberately and wilfully.**

After a pause, she replied: **Your point seemed to be there's only one way to have a family. That is #delusional…**

He exhaled roughly. **Not what I said at all; parenting IS easier when task is shared. How can anyone dispute that?** After a moment he added: **I made no claims abt superiority of one type of family over another. Was wholly your assumption.** And at last: **But if it makes you feel better to call me names, then by all means, continue to do so.**

He sat back feeling smug about the interaction—clearly he had emerged victorious—but then she replied again.

**As a matter of fact, it DOES make me feel better ;)**

This left him utterly perplexed until he realised she had ended the sentence with an emoticon, a wink, which suggested she was joking around. This was further clarified when got a notification that she had retweeted his three messages of explanation, then immediately followed it up with: **I stand corrected #sorry**

A few minutes later he got a notification that she had followed him back. He smiled and replied again, getting the hang of twitter form: **It's quite all right—we all make mistakes. #reindeerjumper**

She responded one more time before apparently signing off for the moment:

**Truce, then ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

_Early February_

**You are out of your bloody mind if you don't think they do it!**

Mark laughed then sat back and replied: **I have been accused of that more than once. But rest assured, economic reports DON'T get 'put up' for elections.**

Now that they had cleared the air, called a truce, it was rather engaging, even fun, to spar with Bridget via Twitter, and they'd been doing so for the better part of a fortnight. Even Jeremy had mentioned he'd noticed Mark had seemed much improved in demeanour. "Well," he'd said, "you're smiling, anyway. Glad to see you and Bridget have patched things up."

"So am I."

"So, do you think you'll take her out to dinner?"

The truth was that Mark really wanted to ask her out, but something held him back; perhaps he felt he was still treading on thin ice and thought it was wise to build up a stronger foundation before pursuing something like a relationship. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe."

He started to have second thoughts about proceeding so carefully, though, when another tweet appeared later that same day: **Sigh. Is pathetic to have crush on boss in manner of Miss Moneypenny…**

He furrowed his brows together, tried to recall where it was that she worked. Ultimately, it didn't matter. He had to reply. 

While thinking of his response, Jeremy chimed in his opinion: **As I've said before: never dip nib in office ink, Bee!**

This made Mark chuckle as he dashed off a tweet of his own.

**Must side with J. Very bad idea—risk of compromising professional standards, & if all goes wrong…**

Just as he clicked to post, a new item popped up on his timeline; it was a retweet from Bridget. He had to read it again to make sure he hadn't imagined it. The name, the photo, was one very familiar to Mark; it was the man responsible for the implosion of his marriage. Daniel Cleaver.

**You shock me, Jones. Never would have thought Fitzherbert was your type.**

Immediately after this, from Bridget: **Oh God oh God. And is too late to delete offending tweet.**

Mark realised with dawning horror that Daniel was her boss.

He wasn't proud of what he did next: clicked on Bridget's name to return to her timeline. He was curious to see any further conversation between Daniel and Bridget, but had no intention of following his former friend.

**Nothing to regret, Jones. Glad you brought it up. Had intended to mention concern re: skirt. Seems curiously absent. Sick?**

Mark groaned to read Daniel's words; such smooth flirting, so typical of Daniel, a talent of which Mark had always been slightly envious. There was no immediate reply, then:

Bridget: **Skirt is neither absent nor sick. Skimpy, perhaps, but certainly present. Stop w/blatant slandering of skirt. Sizeist!**

Mark laughed despite himself.

Daniel then replied: **Hmm. Should be sure. Perhaps should take it out for dinner, fatten it up a bit. Maybe you could come too.**

She did not reply, but she certainly didn't need to. It did not take a genius to map out that answer's trajectory. He sat back, frustrated that he had not made an attempt first, that he had witnessed the conversation like a car crash in slow motion; worried that Daniel would do something to hurt her… and yes, he was jealous.

Mark wanted to warn her, but as much as he wanted to intervene, there was no way for him to do so without seeming like he had an ulterior motive… _and she'd probably just do the opposite of what I told her, anyway, just to be contrary_ , he thought.

So he said nothing at all, though he was figuratively biting down on his tongue. He did, however shoot off a direct, private message to Jeremy, asking about how long Bridget had been at her current job, and how long she'd had a crush on her boss.

**She's been there maybe eight months, maybe a year, and I think she's mentioned her boss in passing a few times** , he wrote. **Big crush.**

Mark responded: **Oh, okay.**

There was a pause before another message came up. **Why do you ask about him?**

**Concerned about conversation I just witnessed.**

**Oh? On Twitter?**

**Yes.**

**Oh OK, will just read for myself.**

A few minutes later Mark heard heavy footsteps approaching, then a sharp rap on the door. Mark strongly suspected it was Jeremy and called him in. 

"Mark, old boy, if you're going to act, the time is now."

Jeremy had read the same brief exchange he had just seen occur.

Mark thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

"So you _don't_ want to ask her out to dinner?"

"Actually, yes, I do," he said, "but doing so now will likely garner me a rejection, scepticism that I'm asking just because someone else asked first, accusations of Twitter-stalking, and so forth. It is not the time."

Jeremy looked dubious for a moment, but then reluctantly agreed. "I suppose you have a point," he said. "Don't know, Mark. Don't know much about the man, but there's just something about him I don't like. Cocky bastard, going by the few messages to her."

An internal debate flared up within Mark at this comment; in that moment, he could have given Jeremy the full story of the history between himself and Daniel, but something caused him to hesitate. _Not just a nebulous 'something'_ , he thought. _Pride._ Everything about the situation—his wife betraying him so shortly after their wedding—had been humiliating to him. Emasculating. It had taken him a very long time to come to terms with the emotional trauma; he had not had more than a few dates with other women since. Such an admission to a colleague and friend would have opened that would all over again, maybe even made him look like a fool. He hated looking foolish.

Bridget was a grown woman, if a somewhat headstrong and stubborn one. Since nothing he could say—or nothing he could tell Jeremy, who would then blurt it to Bridget by way of the world—would keep her from doing what she wanted, so he would just have to hope she was going into it with her eyes open. He would just have to trust she could take care of herself.

"Yes," he said, "he does give that impression, doesn't he?"

………

After viewing the interaction between Bridget and Daniel, Mark felt his enthusiasm for his own timeline waning; instead, he kept his eye on Bridget's timeline, particularly on her conversations with Daniel. They had evidently planned dinner for the weekend.

Over the days since their truce, through the interactions he'd had with her and the things she had tweeted and retweeted, he had gotten to know her pretty well… and realised he felt rather protective of her. He didn't want her to be hurt, and he knew all too well how easy it was to see what one wanted to see, to see what might not be there at all, especially when it came to Daniel. Mark knew what he was exceedingly charming when it came to getting what he wanted—and he suspected Daniel only wanted one thing in particular, with no regard for her sweet nature and witty personality.

He noticed then that there was an indicator that he had a direct message, so he went over to see what it was, fully expecting some kind of status update request from Jeremy. It was not. 

**Awfully quiet from the hallowed halls of Inns of Court. Not even a peep re: footballer betting scandal. All well? Did I offend?**

He smiled, touched by her concern after only a few short days' retreat. She might have had a wickedly sharp tongue at times, but her supportiveness towards her friends—which he guessed he counted himself among now—was always very obvious.

**Did not offend; don't worry. Just been very busy. Nice to hear from you.**

As soon as he sent the reply, as it popped up on the screen in the conversation window, he reread it and cringed. _'Nice'_ , he thought. _What a bland, wishy-washy word._

He added: **And by 'nice' I mean 'glad'. And you? What's new?**

After a pause, he got a response. **Not much. Though have a date this weekend. No more nagging from your mum, or mine. ;)**

Mark considered his next words to her. She had cracked open the door to discussing her date on the weekend; he wanted to use the opportunity to offer some kind of advice in the hopes that she would be wary when it came to Daniel. Before he had a chance to respond, she sent another message.

**Sorry, that was weird & you probably don't know how to respond—am just a little on edge.** Then: **He's v. charming but a bit of a poster boy for everything I swore to stay away from.**

He let out a long, relieved breath. She had doubts about Daniel, was not all starry-eyed and swooning, and that made saying what he wanted to say that much easier: **Don't underestimate your instincts. Be careful. Be on your guard.**

Another long pause; he wondered if he had gone too far. Then she replied again.

**Well, don't think he's going to butcher me or anything, but point taken. Thx. :)**

He smiled. **You're welcome.** As an afterthought he decided to add a smile to the end of the line.

Another message popped up. **OMG you used a smiley face. :D**

He laughed aloud. **I DO smile at times. ;)**

With that he signed off; he had done as much as he could without actually physically preventing her from going to the date. He felt good about it, though, and he continued to smile.

………

Mark knew the date was for Friday night. When nothing was mentioned on Saturday or Sunday, he began to wonder, though not worry, because she was otherwise posting, evidence she had not in fact been butchered. Did the silence indicate things had gone well, or poorly?

Jeremy came to the office on Monday with a great big grin on his face. "Talked to Bridget?"

"No," Mark replied nonchalantly.

"Hear there was a change in plan regarding her date," he said. "Don't have any details, but… Magda suggested you might want to ask."

"I'm not going to ask," he said coolly; although he wanted desperately to find out, he did not want to pry. "If she wants to tell me about it, I'm perfectly willing to listen."

Jeremy pursed his lips. "You should at least ask her out."

"I'll wait and see," Mark said. "If things have… not gone well, I'm not going to swoop in and take advantage of her in a vulnerable state."

Jeremy burst out with an ungainly guffaw. "Always a bloody gentleman," he said with a wink. "You're right, of course. I just think the two of you would hit it off so well."

When Mark logged into his computer, he fought the urge to open the Twitter application for as long as he could and finished preparing the brief he needed for the afternoon. When he did finally log in, he had a private message from Bridget.

**Had a crazy idea re: date & listened to instinct & glad I did. Thanks.**

Once again, she'd brought it up, so he felt perfectly free to ask: **How did it go?**

**Disappointing but not surprising** , she said.

**Sorry you were disappointed.**

**Don't be sorry. Has cured me of boss-crush & reinforced New Year resolutions.**

**That's good.** He felt a little flash of something, a mixture of pleasure and relief. **May I ask about crazy idea?**

**LOL** , she replied. **You may, sir. Told him wanted to have lunch rather than dinner date to see how he'd react.**

**And?**

**As suspected, sulky, distracted & petulant. Date was flop. Think it threw him off his game.**

Although he felt badly for doing so, Mark grinned.

She continued: **Confirmed was just nothing but potential shag to him, never mind is boss. I stayed friendly but not flirtatious. Parted after 90 mins.**

**Was generous of you, given the circumstances,** he said.

**Still have to work together—so had to make sure was not mortifying to come to office.** Pause, then: **Well. Is not mortifying for me, anyway.**

**That's good** , he said, chuckling a little as he typed.

**And,** she added, **was v.g. top lunch.**

………

_Almost mid-February_

Relative quiet followed for the next few days. At work, Mark was at the top of his game, scoring wins in every case at which he had a court appearance, and emerging victorious from a squash match with an old uni pal, Charles. "Impressive, old man," Charles had said to Mark. "Ran circles around me. What's gotten into you?"

He'd merely shrugged and grinned a little. The situation—the burgeoning friendship with Bridget via electronic medium—seemed far too complicated a situation to try to summarise and explain in the far-too-little time available.

**Cannot believe no one available to see cinema screening of Philosopher's Stone tonight! #Jerkswithlives**

This was the first tweet of Bridget's he ran across on Friday when he opened his timeline to read during lunch. He chuckled and felt compelled to reply, especially after Jeremy added to the conversation: **Could loan you Constance & the boys for the night, LOL**

Mark asked: **Do you mean the Harry Potter film? Aren't you a bit old for that?**

By the time he finished reading, he had a reply from her: 

**Shut. Up. Is v.g. film. Bet you would like it.**

Feeling a bit playful, he responded: **Why? I'm not mentally 12.**

**Oh, I suppose this means I am T.T**

He laughed aloud again.

She sent another message: **BET YOU DINNER YOU WOULD LIKE IT.**

This piqued his interest. The prospect was win-win; the worst that could happen was that he had to sit through a film he found appalling. **You're on** , he replied.

**Renoir, 7pm—be there or you forfeit #suckerbet #freedinner**

He chuckled again.

It wasn't until a little later that he realised he kind of, sort of had a date with Bridget.

………

"You made it."

Bridget, dressed in winter coat and muffler, had appeared beside where he was queued in the building's lobby, waiting to get into the cinema. Judging from the line behind him, it was going to be quite a full house. He had observed most people in the queue were considerably younger than he was—early twenties, at least—and the other older people in line were obviously there taking young children.

He glanced to his watch. "Given that it's ten to the hour, and that I'm here first, I should say the same to you," he mused. 

"Fair enough," she said with a grin, pulling off the muffler, undoing her coat buttons to reveal a blouse and skirt that barely skimmed her knees. "I really thought you might not show."

"Good thing I did," he said, pointing to the line behind him. "Else you might have got the worst seat in the house."

She smiled again, jerking a thumb behind her. "All of those people hate me now."

"Probably," he said drolly.

"Too bad," she said with a little laugh.

Once they were inside and had claimed seats—practically directly in the centre, which was just about perfect in Mark's estimation—she began digging into her bag. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hungry," she said. "Stopped and bought some popcorn. Want some?"

He stared at her.

She laughed, handing him a package of Tesco Sweet and Salted. "Have you never brought in—what am I saying? Of course you haven't." She pulled out a couple of bottles of sparkling water. "Lightly flavoured with lemon. Hope that'll do. Trying to cut down on sugar."

Given she had just handed him sweetened popcorn, he could not help but chuckle, but said nothing, just accepted the snacks gratefully. "Thank you."

"Of course," she said. "Would have been rude to have got some for myself and not you."

The lights lowered then and the screen filled with light. He then heard close to his ear, a whisper: "I can't open my bottle. Will you?"

He extended his hand and took her bottle, twisting it open for her, thanking God and all the angels in heaven it did not explode all over them as he did. 

With relatively little fuss (and rustle of popcorn packaging) they settled in to watch the film. As the minutes passed, he became utterly sucked into the story of The Boy Who Lived. This surprised him, and it surprised him even more when the picture was over, the credits began to roll and the lights came up.

As people around him began to rise and leave, he heard her chuckle. "You've got little bits of popcorn on your tie." He brushed it off. "So… how did you like it?"

He turned to regard her, looking very serious before speaking at last. "Consider your bet won. I liked it quite a bit." 

She hooted. "I knew it!" she exclaimed. "You _are_ going to make a public apology, aren't you?" She winked.

"Well, perhaps," he demurred. "It's only right, since I intimated you had the mentality of a twelve-year-old."

"Exactly."

With most of the cinema now cleared out, they rose to leave.

"So," asked Mark, "where to?"

"What?"

His stomach sank; had she intended on not taking him up on the dinner, after all? "For dinner?" he prompted.

"Oh, durr!" she laughed. "Er, well… how do you feel about good pub food?"

The suggestion took him by surprise; he had been certain she'd want something a little more upscale. He was coming to realise that much about her surprised him regularly. "That's, um… that's fine, I guess."

She knit her brows. "You don't want to go there, do you?"

"No, no, it's really okay," he said. "I just figured… well, never mind. Let's go, shall we?"

They ended up going to a place not too terribly far from his house, a pub called The Globe. He was pleasantly surprised at the atmosphere: warmly lit; the low buzz of conversation; a crackling fireplace; a smooth, smoky scotch; good wine (or so Bridget said); and the food was excellent.

"I come here a lot," she confessed with a smile, swirling the rest of her wine around the bottom of her glass. "Well, I mean not _every_ night, but a normal amount."

He chuckled. "What's a normal amount?"

"You know," she said with a little shrug. "Once or twice a week. Usually once. Sometimes not at all."

Another chuckle escaped his throat. "And that's normal."

"Absolutely." She raised the glass to take in the last of it, then set the glass down with a slight thud as she grinned at him. "I knew you would like it."

"The dinner? Yes, quite."

She snorted. "No, I meant the film."

"Oh, yes," he said with a light laugh. "Quite a pleasant surprise. So I owe you an apology."

"Bah." She waved her hand, then smirked again. "The public apology will suffice."

Much to his dismay, the chatter of the bartender and the staff suggested the pub might be closing, thus the evening would be winding down; he'd had an excellent time and didn't really want it to end. He said. "Do you need driving home?"

"Actually, I don't," she said.

He was unexpectedly disappointed. "Oh. All right, then."

"Oh," she said with another chuckle. "It's because I live in a flat on the top floor."

As she stood to leave, so did he, and found himself a bit more unsteady on his feet than he thought he would be from the scotch. He heard her laugh a little. "Maybe you shouldn't drive just yet," she said. "Want to come up for a coffee?"

"I don't want to inconvenience you," he said. "I can ring for a minicab."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'm a night owl."

They exited the pub then went around to the residential entrance, climbing several flights of stairs in order to get to her top floor flat. "My friend Jude teases me that I have climber's legs," she said as she slipped the key into the door. "All these stairs, it's little wonder." He felt his face flush with heat; he had already admired her so-called climber's legs as she'd ascended before him. 

Her flat was every bit as warm and welcoming as the pub below, with quirky décor such as fairy lights around the edge of the kitchen and dining room area and colourful, mismatched sitting room furniture. She went about putting together the coffee and at her invitation, he took a seat on chair near the sofa. She joined him momentarily, and as she did, with a big grin on her face, pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag then sat on the sofa.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she furiously thumb-typed.

"You'll see," she said, then stopped and looked up with a grin. She turned her mobile around to reveal the Twitter interface.

He reached into his pocket for his own mobile, opened Twitter, and read what she'd tweeted.

**Post-cinema, post-dinner coffee in my flat with @markdarcylegal, who LOST THE BET, ha ha!**

He chuckled aloud, then replied to her.

**.@bridgetjoneshf, I am perfectly aware that I am here.**

She read what he wrote then laughed, and responded again directly to him.

**And your promised apology?**

He chuckled. "Fine, fine," he said, then typed: **Saw the first Harry Potter film tonight. A triumph! I was utterly wrong & offer most abject apologies to @bridgetjoneshf for doubting.**

After a second, she began to laugh. "I think that's acceptable." She pressed her screen a few times; he got a notification, via email, that she had retweeted it.

**I'm always right** , she wrote back. **Accept this now. ;)**

He then retweeted her message.

She said, "Coffee's done. How do you take it?"

It was such a sudden, strange change from the Twitter conversation that he was jarred. "Ah, oh, black. Thank you," he said as she went over to the kitchen.

"Want biscuits with that?" she called.

"A couple of digestives, if you have them."

She returned within a few minutes with a tray with two coffees and decidedly non-digestive biscuits. "Sorry, didn't have any biscuits but these." 

"It's quite all right," he said. He took one, took a bite, then washed it down with coffee. "I should have guessed you'd not have them."

"Why do you say that?" she said with an air of mock offense. "I am a multi-layered person with _tons_ of depth."

He laughed. "Of course you are. I've just noticed that you prefer sweets." 

She looked down at the plate of biscuits, and the corner of her mouth tugged down. "I rather do, don't I?"

After they finished the coffee and biscuits, Mark stood. As much as he was enjoying himself, it was time to go and his balance and sobriety had been restored. "Well. I'd better be off. Thanks for, well, dessert."

She rose too. "Thanks for dinner," she said. "It was a really fun night."

"It was." He was tempted to say he'd like to repeat it, but did not want to press his luck. Mark went to the door, and she walked with him there. He turned briefly and offered a smile. "Good night."

"Night." She smiled back.

Before he knew it he was on the street again, walking to his car, and exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding in. 

………

While in his kitchen the following morning, Mark heard his doorbell frantically start to go off. Bringing his brows together, he set down his coffee and toast to see what the matter was.

"Mark, I had a devil of a time getting hold of you—you weren't answering your mobile, and I was in the neighbourhood anyway."

It was his colleague Natasha, looking slightly harried as she stood there on his front stoop, then she pushed past him to come into the foyer. "What on earth is the matter?"

"Someone's hacked your Twitter!"

He blinked in his disbelief. "What?"

"Enthusing over a Harry Potter film! You should change your password ASAP!"

He burst out laughing at this. "No, no, that was really me. I went with… a friend to see it."

"Oh." Her concern disappeared at the drop of a hat, replaced by something best described as jealousy, which puzzled him. "You _know_ this Bridget person?"

"Yes, of course," Mark said stiffly.

Now it was Natasha's turn to look stunned. "How?"

"She's the daughter of family friends," he said. 

Oddly enough, this statement caused Natasha to visibly relax. "Oh," she said with a smile. "I understand… how nice of you to take her to see Harry Potter." As he tried to parse what it was she could have meant by this, she added, "So while I'm thinking of it, while I'm here, how do you feel about having lunch today?"

"No, I'm not free for lunch. I was just having breakfast."

"Oh! Shall I join you then?"

He did not see any reason why not, so he nodded, and led her down to the kitchen. She accepted some coffee but demurred on food, and they sat together at the breakfast nook. "Excellent coffee, thank you," she said. "Oh, that was too kind of you, Mark. Too kind, taking this girl to the pictures, then telling the world through your silly tweet that you liked it, just to make her happy."

"But I _did_ like it," he said, then bit into his toast, and drank some more of his coffee. "Wait. Take her to the pictures? She invited _me_ and we met there."

"She's allowed out on her own in the city?"

Mark stared at Natasha then began to laugh as the penny dropped. "Hold on a moment. Do you think Bridget's a kid?"

"Are you telling me she's _not_?" Natasha countered. "Are you saying this adult woman would go—"

"You can stop right there, Natasha," he said coolly. "I went willingly and had a good deal of fun. Maybe you should give it a chance."

She lifted her chin, giving him quite an imperious glare. "I… think not," she said at last. Then she chuckled. "I guess if that's what you feel you have to do."

He understood, or thought he understood, what she was trying to suggest… and he didn't care for the implication at all. He finished his coffee and set the mug down with a little more force than necessary. "I think it's time for you to go," he said in a very cool tone. "I have a lot of work to do today."

"Oh," Natasha said curtly; she clearly did not like being cut off in this manner, but she did as he asked. She stood. "Well, good luck with your work, Mark. I'll see you on Monday." He moved to stand but she said, "No, don't bother; I'll show myself out."

As soon as she was out of sight up the stairs, he let out a long sigh. In reality he had nothing much to work on at all, but he'd dreaded the thought of lunch with Natasha, especially considering she appeared to actually have designs on him. Not really romantic designs, he thought, as she had never struck him as the romantic sort, but designs all the same. He really didn't want to spend any appreciable amount of time alone with her now that he'd realised this; quite frankly, he didn't know how he had not noticed before.

Mark worked his way through his Twitter timeline while drinking another cup of coffee when he noticed he had a new direct message. He switched over to the messages inbox, saw that it was Bridget, and realised that he hadn't seen her on his timeline the whole time he'd been scrolling through.

**Are you free for a coffee or something? Have question for you, too much for messaging.**

His curiosity was piqued and he responded without a hint of guilt: **Yes, I'm free. Lunchtime, or sooner?**

After a few moments her reply came back. **Yes, lunchtime. Costa, Borough High St, not far from either of us. Noon if that works.**

**That's fine,**

**See you then.**

It was not what she said that alarmed him, but rather, what she didn't say; she didn't make any jokes, offer any self-deprecation, or even include a smiley face. He had no idea what on earth this could be regarding. What could have cropped up literally overnight that was so important she needed to talk about it in person?

As noon approached, as he gathered his things to go out, different scenarios played out in his mind, and in the end, as he strolled into Costa Coffee, he had decided that she must have needed some kind of legal advice. Why else would she have needed to see him in particular?

He wasn't fond of fancy coffee drinks, so he opted for an espresso, and to eat, a turkey sandwich with Swiss cheese, lettuce and tomato on a croissant. It was exceptionally tasty, and he was halfway through it when he realised Bridget still had not shown. He then looked up and saw her at the counter, so he waved her over. She had an enormous cappuccino and a chocolate croissant pastry, and offered a smile when she spotted him.

"Sorry for the last minute notice," she said as she sat, "and sorry I'm late."

Given the graveness of her demeanour, he fought back the urge to joke about her tardiness. "It's all right," he said. "So tell me, what's the matter?"

"It's probably nothing," she said, seemingly studying the peaks and swirls in the foam of her cappuccino, "but I wanted to be sure." She looked up; her expression was as serious as he'd ever seen it. "Do you know Daniel Cleaver?"

This was not a question he'd expected, but he answered without hesitation. "Yes, I do," he said, "or rather, I did. He was one of my best mates at uni, my best man, and he slept with my wife two weeks after our wedding. I have not spoken to him since."

To say she looked shell-shocked would have been an understatement. She stared, speechless, as if in lost in her thoughts, and she stayed this way for many moments before she seemingly snapped back to the present and spoke at last. "I'm not surprised. I mean, _what_ he did is a surprise, not _that_ he did it, not really." Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Two _weeks_?" Mark nodded. "What a _bitch_."

He chuckled; he could find the objective humour in it now that time had passed. "Yes, well, that would be putting it mildly," he said. "How did you find out about our former friendship?"

"Daniel himself, actually," she said. "He saw the message where I mentioned you, saw the retweeted apology, and messaged me, to persuade me to give him another chance with a date. For sympathy, he tried to convince me that you cuckolded him by running off with his fiancée."

Mark laughed out loud. "Daniel, engaged? He's never made that sort of commitment before in his life. He can't even commit to…" He trailed off, seeing she was still a little upset. "But, no matter. I'm sorry he couldn't leave well enough alone."

She shook her head. "I had a feeling he was lying, because I know what he's like," she said, furrowing her brow. "I'm just thinking back to our conversation where you advised me to be careful… I thought at the time it was because he was just my boss, but you knew it was him even then, because of that retweet. And you didn't tell me to run away screaming."

He had no intention of denying it. "Yes," he said. "I saw that he was your boss, that he'd messaged you, but had a feeling that if I'd said something warning you off of him, you might be more determined to see him. Thinking I was, er… jealous or something."

At his last little admission, she smiled at last. "Of _course_ you weren't jealous," she said with a light laugh.

He felt his face flush with heat; fortunately for him, she looked down at that moment to pick up her cappuccino for a sip and missed it altogether. He had another bite of his cooling sandwich and they spent a few minutes in comfortable silence, eating.

"I'm so glad I came to you with this," she said. "My instinct about him was right, and your advice reinforced it; kept me from getting really badly hurt, probably. Thank you."

"Happy to have helped."

She laughed again. "Do you know, I've had a few followers message me expressing… well, confusion, surprise, amusement… that I've befriended the Reindeer Jumper guy."

He laughed, even as he felt the blush sustain at the thought that she considered they were friends. "Do you know I've picked up a few of your followers? Must have been my sparklingly witty apology."

She set down her mug with another laugh. "Obviously," she said; the tip of her tongue peeked out to clear her top lip of foam.

They talked about their parents and families; about Grafton Underwood and their childhoods, which had only infrequently crossed despite the near-legendary paddling pool anecdote; about the friendships they'd formed in parallel with Magda and Jeremy, yet had never known one another before the Turkey Curry Buffet.

"It's weird, isn't it, that it seems we were not destined to know each other until now," she said, then added with a little wink, "Maybe it's the universe's way of telling me I'm going to need legal counsel soon."

He couldn't help but laugh lightly and caution, "Don't go out of your way to get arrested on my account."

When lunch was over, he offered to drive her home but she demurred, saying it would do her good to walk.

"I insist," he said. "You shouldn't walk on your own. It's dangerous."

She regarded him with a raised brow. "I walk on my own all the time. It's also the middle of the afternoon."

"Still. I'd feel better knowing I'd got you home safely."

"All right," she agreed, though still had an odd yet amused expression on her face. "I'll go."

It wasn't a long drive at all; he parked on the kerb then got out to walk her to her front door. He said goodbye, but she just stood there with a smirk playing on her lips.

"Either you are one of the last remaining gentlemen in this entire city," she said without prompting, "or you think me the most enfeebled creature in the world. Lucky for you, I'm inclined to think the former." She dug out her key, then smiled at him again. "I'm sure I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

He waited until she was inside before driving off, and as he did a thought crept into his head: if the universe conspired to keep them apart until now, there could be other, less ominous reasons for such intervention. Decidedly the opposite, he fervently hoped.


	3. Chapter 3

_Just past mid-February_

Work the following week got the better of Mark Darcy, so although he kept up with Bridget's occasional friendly taunts to lure him into debates, he hadn't had much time to reach out to her in the real world. The debates, he had to admit, were fun and quite stimulating.

On the Friday after their Costa Coffee luncheon, he noticed a tweet from her that both touched and confused him:

**#ff @markdarcylegal, who improves upon closer acquaintance ;)**

He replied wanting to know what "ff" stood for, and she responded, letting him know that it meant "Friday follow"; she further explained, **You know, people who are worth following, even those who admire the balding upper middle-class twits I despise ;)**

**Ah, well, thank you. And an #ff to you as well.**

Jeremy chimed in with: **LOL, only people who will see that are people who already follow her. #durr**

He realised Jeremy had a point, and decided he should do a proper Friday Follow recommendation. The problem was that he had no idea what to say, and he didn't want to leave it hanging for too long lest she think he was not going to properly, well, follow through.

After much concentrated effort, he thought he had something worthy, and typed it in, hoping it would work. He mused that there was an unexpectedly high amount of pressure in condensing one's complex thoughts down to a mere 140 characters maximum.

**#ff @bridgetjoneshf—an admirable sparring partner, one whose riposte is unparalleled.**

After a few seconds he heard a loud "Ha!" from down the hall, then footsteps leading to his door. "Mark?" Unsurprisingly, it was Jeremy.

"Come in," he said, turning away from his computer screen.

Jeremy wasted no time coming to the point: "For the love of God, Queen and country, ask her out already."

Mark chuckled. "For your information, we have already gone out. Cinema, and lunch on Saturday."

"Harry Potter doesn't count," said Jeremy. "And what was lunch on Saturday?"

"She asked me to meet her, wanted to talk to me about…" He hesitated. "Her boss. Who happens to be the man who broke up my marriage."

He looked appropriately stunned. "You never said a thing!"

"Yeah, not something I really wanted to broadcast around town."

"Fair enough," said Jeremy. "Anyway, pretty sure she doesn't think of that as a date, either. Sort of a one-sided dating relationship, thus far."

Though Mark was amused, he realised Jeremy was right. "I'll ask, though not going to do so through tweeting or messaging." He laughed. "I don't even think I have her number."

"I can remedy that," said Jeremy.

"Will she be all right with you giving out her number? Maybe I should just ask directly."

"No, I'm sure it's fine," he said, waving his hand. "Don't worry about it." He pulled out his mobile. "I'll just message it to you, and you can import it into your address book."

With a little help from Jeremy, he got the number imported into his contacts list. Jeremy poked fun at Mark's inability to do so on his own. "Hey," he said in his own defence with a chuckle, "it wasn't that long ago that Twitter had me utterly baffled."

"Touché, my fencing-minded friend," said Jeremy. "You know, I think the cinema's showing another Harry Potter film. Might be a golden opportunity."

Mark nodded. It was a good idea, and he immediately pulled up a search window for the cinema in order to get details. Despite what he'd just said to Jeremy, he felt compelled to ask her publicly with a bit of a tease.

**Too cruel you are, @bridgetjoneshf, setting me off on a new addiction then leaving me in the lurch. Only film # 2 can help. Renoir, tonight.**

Another knock distracted him just as he sent the message. The door was still open, and this time it was Giles, with a rather odd grin on his face.

"So," he said, "who's this gal you've been flirting with on Twitter?"

Mark felt his face flush red. He hadn't thought he'd been so obvious. "I'm not flirting," he said defensively.

Giles burst out with a laugh. "Those who know you know that for you, this _is_ flirting. Natasha Glenville is positively simmering with jealousy. You know she's itching to have a crack at you."

He pursed his lips. "Yes, I do know."

"She's a right wit," said Giles, "and quite easy on the eyes, that Twitter bird of yours."

Even though he agreed, he still felt defensive. "She's not 'my' anything."

Giles clucked his tongue like a mother hen. "You'd be a fool not to try making that happen. She obviously likes you—miles apart from your first encounter."

He wished people would stop bringing that up, already.

Surprisingly, she did not respond right away, and in fact he did not see a reply until he checked again when he got home.

**Am game if you are. #firstonesfree**

He decided to go for a little bravery and send his reply back via SMS using the mobile number from Jeremy: See you there, then.

After a moment, he had a response. Who is this?

He wanted to hit himself hard on the forehead. Sorry. It's Mark. Jeremy gave me your mobile number. Hope that's okay. Wanted to make sure you saw it before the film, so you knew I'd be there.

Another pause (with indications she was typing), then: Ohhh, yes, that's fine. See you later ;)

After doing some basic touch-up grooming and changing into a cotton jumper and khaki trousers slightly more casual than his work suit, he made his way to the cinema. He was very lucky with regards to traffic, and was equally lucky with parking; he hadn't wanted to take a taxi as he wanted to be able to offer her driving home. When he got to the box office, he purchased two tickets then sent her another text message by phone to let her know he had done so, and that he was in the queue to get seats.

Thx, she replied. Almost there! Had to stop for popcorn etc.

At this he laughed. Many thanks.

Oh, I didn't get YOU any! (Ha, ha J/K)

He brought his brows together, then remembered that "J/K" meant "just kidding", and he chuckled.

Mark was surprised at how nervous he felt, standing there, waiting in line, waiting for her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt quite this way when taking a woman out; not his ex-wife, for sure. In fact, he combed through his memories and could not with confidence say he ever had. Truthfully, though, Bridget was quite different from the women he usually came to know—

The light touch of a hand on his upper arm brought him abruptly from his thoughts, and he turned to see Bridget standing there with an impish grin on her face. "Earth to Mark Darcy," she said, "come in."

He felt the warmth of his embarrassment spread over his skin. "Sorry, I was just… well, never mind. Not important." He took a moment to appreciate how lovely she looked, the hint of a cobalt blue jumper peeking at her throat above the topmost fastened button of her winter coat, and heeled, black leather boots that reached nearly to her knees with a thin stripe of black tights between them and the hem of her dark skirt. "You look nice. Lovely. I mean lovely."

She giggled. "Thanks. You look pretty okay yourself. Hm. You know, I'm not sure I ever recall seeing you before in something that's not a suit. This is a first." After a moment, she added, "Though I think the day I see you with mussed hair or the shadow of a beard, I think I might start to wonder if the world was ending."

He laughed, self-consciously running his hand back over his hair. "I can assure you I have days where it has a mind of its own."

She smiled, then ran her own fingers through her loose blonde locks, which mussed them further. Everything about it, finger combing to the way her hair settled back around her face, was, quite frankly, immensely sensual. "That's every moment of every day for me."

"Actually…" He grinned. "I seem to recall you saying that at the Turkey Curry Buffet I had mad hair beyond that of an opera freak."

"Oh, God." She flushed red, covering her face with her hands. "You have an appallingly good memory." She took them away, then said, visibly grateful for a change in subject, "Oh! The queue is moving."

They filed in to the actual cinema; unfortunately the only seats in the best row were off to the side. "Why don't we just sit in the back?" she suggested. "I'd rather be in the centre and further back than off to the side."

Grudgingly he had to agree with her as the view was much preferred from the centre. As soon as the light went down she got out the popcorn and the sparkling water; automatically he reached to open her bottle for her as she pulled open his popcorn packet for him.

The film was as good as the first, and he had a great time exchanging quiet banter with her during the lulls ("Poor Moaning Myrtle… she reminds me so much of my friend Jude, hanging about in the ladies' loo and crying her eyes out over fuckwits! Though, obviously, Jude's not a drowned ghost…"). However, much to his dismay, his eye was consistently drawn to her, to watching her enjoy the film. He tried not to be obvious about it, but he couldn't help but look; her sheer, unbridled enjoyment, so close to the surface, without a hint of artifice. It was a joy to observe.

"Didn't you like it?" she asked upon their leaving.

"Yes, of course," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"You seemed a bit distracted."

_Damn_ , he thought. He had been so sure she hadn't noticed. "Oh, I just… well, I was wondering what you meant there, about Myrtle."

"What?"

"What was she crying her eyes out over? What was that word?"

As they crossed the lobby she paused to laugh, nearly doubling over with breathless giggles. "You mean 'fuckwit'?" she asked when she could. "You know, a… _fuckwit_."

"You can't define a word with that same word," he said.

"Okay, all right…" She regained her composure, still grinning at him. "…let's put it this way. Daniel Cleaver is a fuckwit."

"Ah," he said. "Crystal clear. So, that pub for dinner?"

"Oh, no," she said with a smile, "sorry—I'd already planned on dinner with Tom and the girls. If they do the other films here, though, we'll have to see them."

"Oh," he said, surprised and disappointed. Tom? He then remembered the New Year's photo, the fight comment… "I suppose the film was rather last minute…"

She looked sympathetic as she gave him a smile. "Did have a nice time, though. Had a lot of fun and I'm looking forward to the next one."

He was bewildered; he had considered it a date, but all at once he was getting the distinct impression she had thought of it as something else. Thought of him as a movie buddy. "Yes," he said stupidly, for lack of something better to say. "Do you need driving somewhere?"

"No, that's quite all right; the restaurant's just 'round the corner." After a beat, she asked, "Why don't you come?"

He would have liked nothing better, but frankly he did not want to be the uninvited and unexpected guest, sitting there as the spare wheel under the white-hot scrutiny of her friends' stares. "Thank you, but no. You made your plans and I don't want to throw a wrench into them."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He nodded.

"I should have mentioned it sooner," she said, then offered a little pout. "You almost look a little sad."

"I'll be fine," he said; he didn't want her to feel guilty, so he added, "I was just looking forward to picking apart the film with you over an excellent pub dinner. We can talk about it another time."

"If you're sure," she said sceptically.

"I'm sure." He held out his hand, gesturing her to walk forward again. "Come on, I'll at least walk you down the street to the restaurant."

She smiled sheepishly. "I'd protest, but you would just insist."

Indeed, it wasn't at all far, but he found himself at a loss for anything to say; for someone who he had once accused of verbal incontinence, she too was oddly quiet until they arrived. "Here it is," she said, turning to look at him. "You're sure you—no, okay, I won't ask again." She grinned a little. "And you'll be all right walking back to your car?"

"I'll be fine," he said. "Well. Have a nice night."

"You too," she said. "And thanks again."

There was a moment, stretched into an impossibly long pause, when he felt as if he might be able to get away with giving her a kiss goodnight, even a chaste peck on the cheek, but that moment was shattered with a brash female voice shouted from the door of the restaurant, "There you fucking are! Come on, we're about to order!"

Bridget laughed. "That's Shazzer. She means business—better go." 

He nodded then turned and walked away.

As he drove home, he wondered how much less subtle he would have to be when he thought he was being terribly obvious to start with. When he got home, he decided to be a bit proactive.

**Cinema this evening with @bridgetjoneshf—stellar film, even better company. Looking forward to next time.**

………

Mark should have guessed that his tweet might prompt a nosy enquiry from Jeremy, and the next morning brought such an inquiry to his direct message box.

**Well, well, looks like things went well on date!**

He thought for a moment before replying: 

**We had a nice time—though am not sure she realised it was supposed to be a date.**

Mark didn't get a reply for so long that he wasn't sure he would, but then the message popped up. **What? Surely you're kidding. Why do you think that?**

**After film she went to dinner with her friends. A previous commitment.**

**Well, bloody hell** , said Jeremy. It did not inspire confidence.

Mark added, **And someone called Tom.**

**Pfft, Tom's just a friend.**

Mark scoffed. **How do you know that?**

**Read Tom's profile, for God's sake. ;)**

He jumped over to Bridget's timeline, scrolled down and found a conversation with this Tom; something innocuous about a celebrity with whom he was not familiar. He clicked then on Tom's Twitter name, then read his profile… and then Mark began to laugh. It read: _Former pop star, current hag-fag to fabulous urban family. Looking for my own Brad Pitt._

He returned to his conversation with Jeremy. **I see what you mean.**

**LOL** , said Jeremy. **Do you want Mags or me to say something to her?**

**No, no, no** , Mark said. **I can fight my own battles.**

**If you say so, old man.**

He thought he would just have to be more than just less subtle. He would have to be overt. Direct.

When she replied to his message from the night before, he thought he might have an opening.

**Next time = next week. Love Renoir!**

After a few moments of consideration, he shot back: **And dinner afterwards?**

**Yes. #planningahead #lookingforwardtodiscussion**

He sighed; it seemed she was still under the misapprehension that he was only interested in going out with her to have someone with whom to see the films. He would just have to show her otherwise.

………

_One week after that_

The conversations—bantering, debating, and yes, even flirting—continued unabated throughout the following week. It started with a hypothetical posed on a trending hashtag (which Bridget had retweeted): **If you had to shag David Cameron, Nick Clegg or Boris Johnson…? #pickoneunderpenaltyofdeath**

Her reply: **Pick NClegg, despite being traitorous LibDem; only one self could imagine shagging w/out vomiting. #pickoneunderpenaltyofdeath**

Then: **BJohnson looks like perpetual cyclone victim; face could cure hiccups. #pickoneunderpenaltyofdeath**

And finally: **DCameron… well, am constitutionally incapable of sleeping with a Tory #pickoneunderpenaltyofdeath**

Mark had to admit the statement hurt him a little, though they had never discussed political topics or affiliations in great detail before, so she certainly had not intended to offend him personally. Humour, he decided, was the way to go.

**Such prejudice based on party. Perhaps Cameron has a lovely collection of bonsai trees he personally maintains.**

He followed this with: **Or maybe hand-letters poetry with beautiful calligraphy. Or raises orphaned baby bunnies. #secretlifeofDCameron**

After a few minutes she replied: **O_o You associate REALLY weird things with shagging! :-D**

It _was_ a bit weird, he realised, but he quickly thought of a retort: **Delicate yet strong (bonsai), curvy (poem/calligraphy), soft things (bunnies)—not too odd a connection, actually…**

**Ha! How does 'orphaned' figure in? #gettingabitfreudianhere**

His immediate thought was to equate "orphaned" with "lonely", but even that seemed too desperately direct for him. But before he had a chance to say a thing, she wrote again:

**Surely NOT in publishing sense. Surely. ;)**

He had no idea what she meant by that and immediately went searching on line; quickly he learned that in typography, it meant the first line in a paragraph appearing by itself at the bottom of the page, or if the last line of a paragraph is too short and causes the appearance of too much white space between that paragraph and the next.

In short, orphaned text was a condition that was to be avoided. Undesirable.

He smiled, reading the definition of another undesirable typographic condition—when the last line of a paragraph falls on a new page, separating it from the rest of the text—then replied, **Surely YOU are not a widow…**

**Ha! Never been married and never hear the end of it from my mum…**

He furrowed his brow in confusion. It was not clear to him whether she understood what he meant or not; he supposed knowing one term didn't automatically mean she knew the other, but it seemed rather unlikely…

Then she added, **Let us agree, then, that you are as much an orphan as I am a widow! ;)**

He felt his heart skip a beat in a most cliché fashion; he wondered if she meant she found him attractive. He smiled and hoped so—and maybe dinner post-Harry-Potter film would not be as big a surprise as he had thought. 

**Agreed** , he replied.

Throughout the week, then, he continually referred to her as "widow" while she took to addressing him as "orphan", but mostly in direct and text messages. It got to the point where it almost felt to Mark like they were using terms of endearment.

When Friday came around, Mark found himself unable to concentrate due to his anticipation about the evening before him. He sent her a text message in the morning, offering to get her from work before the film. Sure! she enthused in return. Just need to stop in at Tesco first. She then messaged him her work address. With this further arrangement secured, he became even more restless.

Jeremy joked to him as he brought him some paperwork that he should just go home, already. "You're obviously distracted," he said. "As well you should be. After all, she might not react well to learning it's a first date." Jeremy winked in an exaggerated fashion as he said this, though, obviously joking.

Mark had one instance of panic, though; in mid-afternoon, Bridget tweeted a photo of her lower legs and feet, which were clad in blue jeans and trainers, respectively: **Casual day, hurrah!**

The panic: what if they wouldn't let her in to Le Pont de la Tour wearing blue jeans and trainers?

He wasted no time in picking up the phone and ringing up the restaurant to enquire about her denims. The male voice on the line was polite and deferential. "The dress code is 'smart casual', so of course that's acceptable, Mr Darcy," it said. "Presuming, of course, that the jeans are not fashionably torn on the knees or… elsewhere."

He chuckled. "No, they're suitable to wear to an office job," he said. "As are the trainers." Both the jeans and the footwear, in fact, appeared to be brand new.

When the time came to leave work to pick her up, he had never put his papers away into his attaché or slipped into his jacket faster. On his way out of his office he collided with Natasha and sent his attaché skittering across the floor.

"What's the hurry?" she said as he bent to pick it up; thankfully it had not disgorged its contents.

"I've arranged to meet a… friend to go to the cinema."

She narrowed her eyes. "Oh, right. More childishness with that Bridget person on Twitter," she said. "Have… fun, I guess."

"I have every intention of doing so," he said. 

"So what's next? Are you going to take her to the circus?"

He felt his jaw tighten, but he willed himself not to get angry. He was not going to let her ruin his night. As he went to pass her again, he said quietly, "You don't have to be such a sore loser."

Her mouth dropped open in her surprise before snapping shut, then she turned away from him and marched away. He smirked—the elicited response made being a bit rude more than satisfying.

Before he knew it he was at the address she'd provided, though late by his own standards of arrival. He idled at the kerb for five minutes before deciding to ring her mobile to see how much later she was going to be.

"Shit," she said, surprising him. 

"Pardon?"

"I mean, hi Mark, sorry."

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you running late?"

"Er, no," she said. "I completely forgot you were coming for me and I'm just arrived to Tesco."

He felt a bit deflated. Forgot? "I'll meet you there," he said, hoping he was able to mask the disappointment. "Which one?"

"On Bedford Street. Near to the Leicester Square Tube stop. And Covent Garden."

"I'll find it. Give me a few minutes."

She laughed. "I'll probably be done with the popcorn fetching before you're there. See you soon."

"Bye."

He punched the information into his satnav and took off towards Tesco. With the end-of-day traffic—only slightly busier than regular traffic, as was usual in London—it took him considerably longer than the map distance indicated it should. He approached, saw an opening at the kerb… and saw Bridget standing near it with a carrier bag. She saw him and waved with a smile. He was gobsmacked; though she was wearing a winter-weight short coat and a muffler, he could see when she raised her hand to wave that the waist of her jeans sat just above her hips, in what was commonly referred to as a low-rise or hip-hugger style. He pulled into the spot, got out and got the door for her in a rather automatic manner; as he did, he contemplated what her top might look like and whether the restaurant would consider it 'smart casual'.

He tried to get his mind off of this by switching the satnav to direct him to the Renoir. He then pulled the car away from the kerb as she started unloading her purchases—popcorn and sparkling lemon water, as she had gotten before—into her oversized handbag.

"Mind if I put on a different station?"

She meant the music, which was currently playing Chopin, and he said that she was welcome to do so. Chopin disappeared, and in its place, a woman's voice rang out at top volume. "What on earth is this?" he asked.

"Beyoncé!" she shouted with a broad grin. "Who, not what. Isn't she _brilliant_?"

"She does have a nice voice," he said loudly, "but if you don't mind…" He used his thumb to bring down the volume using the button on the steering wheel. "That's better. I would, after all, like to actually be able to talk to you."

"Ha," she said, though when he glanced over she was smirking a little.

"You look nice," he said abruptly, immediately regretting using that adjective again. "I noticed the blue jeans in the photo earlier. Are they new?" 

"Just picked them up on the weekend in anticipation of casual day. Left the trainers at work, though." As he paused in traffic, he looked down at her feet, and realised she now wore brown leather boots with a good sized heel on them. "So much easier to sprint around the office in trainers rather than these." She snorted a laugh. "Still getting puppy-dog looks from—" Suddenly she stopped. "Well. Hardly matters."

"From whom?" Mark pressed.

"I think you know," she said, "but he's not getting another shot."

For a few moments, the car went quiet except for the music, which changed to another song (he thought it was a different artist, but he couldn't be sure).

"Still want to be able to talk to me?" she asked, breaking the silence. It was a poor attempt at levity; he could tell she was bothered by bringing up Daniel Cleaver, even inadvertently.

"Of course I do," he said decisively. "I for one am glad you're able to keep him at arm's length. I know how persistent he can be."

"Yeah," she admitted. "Plus, once he's been rejected…"

"Yes," he said.

He heard a light laugh. "I bet you have stories. It's so weird, though."

"What is?"

"Daniel and you. Being mates. You're so different."

"I think that was part of it," he said as he negotiated the car into a parking spot. "Our personalities complemented each other in many ways. But I could never trust him again after what he did to me. So I chose to cut off all contact entirely."

"I don't blame you." She took in a deep breath, then exhaled. "Well, we're here, and we're here to have a nice time. No more speaking of backstabbing fuckwits."

This caused him to laugh sharply. "Well said."

He purchased her ticket; as they walked to queue to get into the cinema he said, "It's only right for me to buy it for you, as you got our snacks." Once they arrived at the tail of the queue, she asked if he would hold her handbag for a moment. He agreed, and as he held her bag for her, she slipped out of her muffler then winter jacket.

His eyes fixed immediately at the collar of the dark blue shirt with the light blue twisted vine pattern; specifically at the point where the front criss-crossed almost in the manner of a kimono, how low it dove in the front, and whether it still remained within the 'smart casual' boundaries. The sleeves were long but flared, and the lower hem skimmed the waist of her jeans, and if she moved in just the right way, the skin of her abdomen showed. The shirt was of a heavier fabric, possibly cotton, but still shifted very fluidly as she moved.

"Mark?"

He blinked and looked to her. She was grinning. "Sorry," he said, then added, willing himself not to use the word 'nice': "That's a very interesting top, and I couldn't help noticing the necklace—very lovely."

"Thank you," she said, still smiling. "Weren't quite expecting this, were you?"

"Not really," he admitted, offering a sheepish grin.

"Yeah, got this at the same time I bought the jeans." She looked down. "Didn't realise the collar would be quite so… low. But I like it. It's cute."

He looked towards the front of the queue and saw motion. "They've opened the doors," he said, fully aware that he was changing the subject. The way she grinned when he looked back to her told him she was aware of it, too.

They took their seats—near the back, in the centre—and as the lights went down, he couldn't help thinking that the movie could not pass quickly enough. She opened the popcorn; he twisted the caps off of their drinks. Everything was as had become their habit.

The film ended up being compelling enough that he was able to be pulled into it, though as the credits began to roll, his anxiety began to build; now they would be heading to the restaurant, and she would either be receptive to the venue, or repulsed.

They walked back to his car; he shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. He noticed that with the boots she was much taller than usual, so that their heights were more equal. He hoped he might have the opportunity to take advantage of it later. 

"Oh, I have been dying for a good fish and chips all week," she said as they settled in to the car. Mark's heart sank.

"I was thinking something a little different," he said.

"Oh? Like what?"

"It's a surprise," he said. 

"A surprise? Ooh. Where?"

"If I tell you, it isn't a surprise," he said. "I will say it's not a pub."

"Oh really?" she asked. "Well, I can forgo the fish and chips if there's chocolate on offer."

He was suddenly enjoying the suspense, and hoped the positive response would sustain upon arrival.

The drive was interminable, but at last they arrived to the proximity and Mark was able to find a spot to park the car. She still did not seem to realise where it was they were going, only that it was relatively near to her flat.

"All right," she said, stopping, putting her hands on her waist. "I'll bite. Where is it? Food cart 'round the corner? Itinerant food merchants?"

He held out his hand, indicating they needed to walk just a bit further; the restaurant was about a half of a block away. "We're nearly there."

As they got nearer, she saw the restaurant's sign. Her eyes widened; she had obviously heard of the place. "Oh my gosh. We're going _there_?"

"Yes," he said.

"Really?"

"Yes."

He turned to look at her and saw a confused expression on her face: brows drawn together, lower lip caught between her teeth. "But…" she began, trailing off, then looked at him. "Why?"

Again he was crestfallen. "What do you mean 'why'?"

"Well, why not just say you don't like The Globe?"

"I did like it."

"Then why here? It's bloody expensive, and I'm not dressed for it."

"It's got fantastic atmosphere," he said. He then smiled, and decided to hold off on full confessional mode until they were inside. "Come on. You'll be fine, and we have a reservation."

The maître d' at the door, however, had other ideas.

"I'm so sorry, sir," he said, his eyes flicking from Mark to Bridget, then back again. "Your companion does not meet dining room dress code."

Mark was mortified. "But I phoned earlier and was assured it would be all right."

"Perhaps your description was misinterpreted."

She tore off the muffler and pulled the jacket open to reveal the top. "What's wrong with this outfit?"

The maître d's brows rose, and looked to Mark again. "My apologies, sir, but her attire definitely does _not_ conform. I do apologise."

"Hello," she said, offended. "I am _right here_ and I do understand English, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Yes, she _is_ right here," said Mark to the maître d', "and we will not be staying."

Once back on the street, he sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'd wanted it to be a nice night."

"It _has_ been a nice night," she said. "It's not your fault, and I'm not offended. Honestly, I'd probably turn me away too." She smiled, touching him on the upper arm. "We can just go to the pub; no worries."

He ran his hand over his hair. "I was trying to make a point," he said. "I thought the atmosphere might—" He broke off; he didn't know quite how to put it. 

"Might what?"

_Actions speak louder than words,_ he thought, so he reached and took her hand, and he held it in both of his. He watched a myriad of emotions cross her features, bewilderment chief amongst them. "Maybe make you realise it's not really the films I have enjoyed the most these Friday nights."

The penny finally seemed to drop. " _Oh_. But…" she said, astonished, "but you don't even find me attractive. All those things you said at the Turkey Curry Buffet."

He looked down at her, not sure what more he could say to convince her of his attraction to her; he didn't know how she couldn't know, after all of the flirting they had done online. So he decided to let actions speak for him again.

He took one of his hands and cupped her cheek, then bent swiftly down and pressed his lips to hers; after a moment or two of small, chaste kisses, her mouth yielded to him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, passionately, yet tenderly. He felt he had waited so long to kiss her, that the circumstances now were less than ideal, but it did not negate his enjoyment of the experience at all. 

When at last he broke away, he touched his forehead to hers, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. He ran his hands down her arms, then took her hands. "Would I kiss you like that," he said softly, "if I didn't find you attractive?"

He could hear her breathing unsteadily; he took it as an excellent sign. "Hmm," she said at last. "I'm just not sure." He drew back, meeting her gaze. "I may need more evidence."

_Evidence?_ he thought, feeling lost and more than a little wounded. _What more evidence can she possibly need?_

However, as he thought this, he caught the hint of a smirk. Then she reached up to kiss him in return, and kiss him she did, at great length, combing her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, then bringing her arms up around him.

She smiled after they broke apart, brushing along his lips with her fingers and thumb; he noticed her lipstick was now decidedly smudged. "Yes," she said. "I think you might just have changed your mind, after all."

He smiled, took her hand, and said, "I don't know you about you, but I could go for some fish and chips."


	4. Chapter 4

**Best date last night, even if didn't realise it was one as such at first. Film, fish & chips, wine, a little snogging. xx**

Mark awoke the next morning to see that very message on Bridget's Twitter timeline from late the night before, after they'd parted; as he ate breakfast, he felt his face flush red. He had not been named outright, but anyone who had been remotely paying attention over the last few weeks would be able to piece together with whom she'd had the date. To wit, a few replies later, there was a response from Jeremy: **Nice to see things working out with @markdarcylegal! #reindeerjumper**

He switched over to text messaging, shot one to her: **Just had look at Twitter—please could you keep dating details out of the public eye?** After a moment's contemplation, he added, in order to stave off any hint of a row, **Not that am ashamed, just… intensely private. Definitely not ashamed.**

After a few minutes he saw the screen change to suggest she was typing, then: **Are you mad? It's 8am.**

He chuckled, then replied, **Sorry. (Good morning.)**

She responded quickly. **I didn't say anything private though. Jeremy's the arse. (Oh, and thanks, though… ugh.)**

She was right, so he felt the need to explain: **I know. Easy to piece things together, though, and I would just prefer not to give the likes of J fuel for the fire. I like… keeping this to ourselves on social media.**

There was a long pause before she replied. **Good thing you already qualified statement as not being due to shame. Might've had to bollock you.** After a few seconds, she said, **Figuratively, of course. ;-D**

**What are your plans? Free tonight?**

As soon as he sent it, he regretted it; not that he didn't want to see her, but he didn't want to seem too overbearing and frighten her off.

**Don't think so. Will check when have slept a little longer, LOL.**

He replied, **OK. If you're not free, I understand. Would like to see you again if I can, though.**

He waited for a response for what seemed like far too long, and had convinced himself she had already gone back to sleep when the typing activity indicator came on.

**Oh, you're sweet. Will let you know. xx**

**Okay** , he typed, then, after a moment's hesitation, added, **xx**.

This yielded one more response from Bridget: **:-D**

He smiled; as the minutes passed, his smile broadened. He was definitely warming to technology as a social facilitator.

Before signing off for the time being, though, he shot a message to Jeremy.

**If you would, please, stop publicly commenting on our newly formed dating relationship… I would appreciate it.**

Almost immediately he got back, **Sorreeee! Magda's thrilled BTW! :-D**

………

_First week of March_

"Pizza."

"Pardon?" Mark asked, confused.

"That's what I want for dinner tonight. Don't you want to have pizza?"

"Of course I do. Sure," he said.

Pause. "You don't sound very sure."

"Truthfully, I'm not, but only because I… don't get pizza very often."

"Not often?" She asked this as if accusing him of allowing toddlers of playing with matches.

"Let's just say I'm not familiar with pizza places in town."

She chuckled. "Oh, just leave that to me. Haven't landed in A&E with food poisoning yet, have you?"

"'Yet'?" he asked, though he laughed a little too. "Looking forward. Thanks to you, I have become a much more adventurous diner."

He and Bridget had gone out together most evenings since that first date— _the first acknowledged date, anyhow_ , he thought with a grin—and each night had been both interesting and educational with regards to getting to know her better. He was playing it cautious; he didn't want to ruin anything by sleeping with her too soon, but with each date his resolve was wearing thinner and thinner.

She had, at the very least stopped trying to document on Twitter every moment of their dating, and what she did end up tweeting, Jeremy had the good grace to leave alone.

Although it was Friday, instead of getting her from work, she asked him to meet her at her flat; initially he thought she meant at the kerb, but when he arrived and she was not where he expected her to be, he parked near the building then pulled out his mobile to call her.

"Hi," she said. "Are you on your way?"

"No, I'm here," he said. "Are you ready?"

"Um…" she hesitated, then asked, "Why don't you come on up?"

 _She's not ready_ , he thought in his amusement. "Sure." He got out of the car, went up to the building, then pressed the buzzer. "That's me, obviously. At the door."

The lock released.

He made his way up to her flat, then knocked on the door; she opened it, greeting him with a smile and a "Hi." He was, however, confused. She was not dressed for going out. In fact, it looked as if she had changed out of her work clothes and into something casual; the sort of casual, in fact, usually intended for lounging around the house.

"Will it take you long to finish?"

"Finish what?"

"Getting ready?" he prompted; it didn't seem possible that she could have forgotten their plans for pizza.

"Oh, I'm ready."

"Must be a _very_ casual place," he said.

Her smile turned into a devilish smirk. "My flat usually is."

He realised what she meant by this: they were eating in. "Oh," he said.

She backed up in order to allow him in, then led him up the stairs into the flat proper. "That's okay, I hope? Staying in?"

"It's fine," he said. "I'm just…" He looked down to his suit with a lopsided grin. "…a bit _over_ dressed."

"Ah, nothing taking that jacket and tie off won't fix," she said. "Ordered just a little while ago, so should be here within the hour." She went over to the kitchen. "Want some wine?"

"Would love some wine."

As she poured the wine, he slipped out of his suit jacket and tie, and then slung them over the arm of a chair. She returned to the room and smiled, handing him a glass of red wine. "I've noticed you prefer red," she said, "and will go well with your pizza."

"My pizza?"

"Well, your half. I thought you might like the meat-laden one," she said. 

She sipped from her white wine, which prompted him to ask, "What toppings are on your half?"

"Mm, four cheese. My favourite." She tilted her head, evidently scrutinising him, then smiled. "So this is more casual, is it?"

He looked down then to her again. "I lost the tie and jacket."

"Hold this for a second." She handed him her wine glass, then reached up and unfastened the button at his throat, then the next one down, pulling the halves of the collar apart. "There we are. Decidedly more casual."

The innocuous touch affected him more than he was willing to let show. He only smiled then handed her glass back to her. "Thank you."

"Anytime," she said. "So, pizza and… something on DVD? I don't have a great film library but…" She waved her arm towards the shelves where they were. "You can pick. Sorry I didn't plan for something in advance."

"Don't suppose you have the next Harry Potter film in the series?" he asked; the Renoir cinema was not showing the others in the series for another fortnight.

She pulled her lips in apologetically. "Sorry, no."

"Well. Let's see what you have, then."

The multi-disc DVD of the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ had a place of prominence in her film collection—"Of course," she said, lifting her chin as if daring him to disagree—but beyond that she did not have many others. The titles she did own, such as _Sleepless in Seattle_ , _Thelma & Louise_, _Titanic_ , and a few series of the American television show _Friends_ , were not quite grabbing him.

"I don't know," he said at last. 

The buzzer on her entryphone went off. "Oh, that'll be the pizza," she said, setting her wine down and heading for the flat's entrance. "Why don't you pick—"

"Why don't I pay for the pizza," he said, "and let you make a decision on the film? I've already said—"

The buzzer went off again. "Okay," she said, picking it up. "Yes, who is it?… Yes, come on up. Top floor."

He'd set his own glass down by hers and joined her at the door. "Go on," he said as she set down the phone.

"You don't have to pay for the pizza."

"I know I don't have to," he said with a smile. "You're a modern woman of substance, after all, or so you have said. But I can't decide on a film. Paying for pizza, I can do."

She laughed. "Okay."

She walked back towards her shelf, and he watched her go until the knock at the door startled him back to his task. He paid for the pizza, took it in and brought it back into the flat. He saw her standing now in front of the television with furrowed brow as the light from the screen flickered across her, pushing buttons on a remote control.

"Want to bring the wine back in here?" he asked, setting the pizza box on her table.

She brushed her hands together. "Ugh. Better wash my hands first. I can tell I haven't watched some of those film—wait, why?" she asked.

"To… eat dinner?" he ventured unsurely.

She looked over to him. "What about the film?"

"We can watch it afterwards."

She was staring at him like he had confessed to an axe murder. "While we have dessert?"

"Sure." She still looked a bit sceptical, but went over to the kitchen, washed her hands, then went over to get the glasses and bring them to the table. "Plates too, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, perfect."

He looked up when she hadn't moved. "I was kidding," she said with a grin, "but I'll get them. I suppose you'll want a fork and knife as well?"

"That will not be necessary," he said, affecting a mock-offended voice. 

She returned presently with two plates, two napkins and a lighter. All became clear regarding the latter item when she reached to light the candles that already resided on the table. She set down his cloth napkins, one at for each of them, then took a seat. He asked, "Shall I push your chair in?"

She giggled. "Sure, thank you."

He did, then opened the pizza box; the pizza inside was still very hot and as he lifted the lid a burst of steam and spicy tomato and meat aroma came forth. Each half was distinct enough to not be mistaken for the other. Both halves looked utterly delectable.

"Shall I serve?" he offered.

"By all means," she said, rolling her hand suggesting he proceed at once.

He stopped briefly to the sink, then returned from the kitchen with a spatula to serve up a four-cheese slice for her and a meat-laden one for himself. He closed the box, set the spatula on top, then sat and pulled his chair close.

He then regarded his pizza. In actual fact he would have preferred to eat it with a fork and knife, but he was not about to get one now. He went to pick up his napkin to drape over his lap and in doing so very nearly sent something flying.

It was a fork and knife.

He looked over to her and saw her smirking, her pizza held aloft in preparation to have a bite. "I grabbed them just in case."

"Thanks. I was just thinking I might want them, after all."

"Or, you know, you could just live dangerously." She then took a great big bite, and in doing so, smudged sauce on each corner of her mouth. "Mmm," she said, then started to chew. "See?"

The last word was only barely distinguishable, and he chuckled. "Don't talk with your mouth full," he admonished, then decided to forgo the utensils and picked it up to take a bite.

"That's the spirit," she said, and as he looked up, she picked that moment to reach for her wine to have a sip. As she did, she met his gaze, and saw her offer a small smile. He then partook of the slice; it was, without exaggeration, probably the best pizza he had ever tasted.

When he could, he asked, "So which film did you end up picking?"

" _The Thomas Crown Affair_ ," she said.

"Oh," he said. "I think I've seen that. Good film. McQueen, Dunaway…" He trailed off when he noticed her blank look.

"What are you talking about? It's got that guy who used to be Bond, Pierce Brosnan, and what's her name… Rene something. Oh. Rene Russo."

He realised she must have meant an updated version. "Ah, okay. No, that one I haven't seen."

"Oh, it's really, really good. You'll like it."

They continued eating their pizza in relative silence, just making occasional observations about the quality and flavour of the pizza between bites. Mark ate half of his, feeling pleasantly full and deciding to stop after the piece he was almost finished eating, before he realised he may have made a tactical error regarding the sauce (and the amount of garlic therein). 

"Can I try a taste of yours?" she asked, pulling him out of his garlic-laden thoughts.

"You can take a slice if you like," he said.

"Oh, too full for that," she said, then pointed at the slice he was holding. "Just a bite?"

His brows rose. She wanted a bite from his slice? "Sure," he said, holding it up toward her for her to take.

Instead of taking it from his hands, she placed her own hand on his and pulled it towards her, then leaned in for a bite on the edge. She pulled back, making an approving face as she chewed, then held up her hand in a 'thumbs up' gesture. When she finished, she said, "Oh, that's _fantastic_."

"It is," he said, though he was thinking more about her hand on his.

"I don't know about you," she said, "but I'm nowhere near being ready for dessert. We can start the film and have it in a bit. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," he said, setting down the remains of the crust.

"Want some more wine?" she asked.

He thought that a second glass would not go awry; it would be at least a couple of hours until he left for home. "Sounds great. Thanks."

She went for the wine then brought both bottles back to the table, topped each one up. They then went towards the sofa and she took a seat. Mark, however, just stood there, unsure if he should presume to join her or sit in one of the other chairs. She made his decision for him by saying, "We aren't living in Victorian times, Mark. You can sit next to me."

In all of the instances where he had been to her flat—which amounted to two or three times, at most—he had either sat in the chair or had not stayed long enough to lounge in the sitting room (and only just to say a cosy goodnight up off of the street). It was really no slower than the progress he'd had taking out other women, but he had not been quite so eager for intimacy with any of them; the thought of sitting beside her on the sofa, however…

 _Get hold of yourself, Darcy_ , he thought as he took a seat. _You'll enjoy the film, cuddle a bit maybe. She appreciates your respect for her. Don't push it._

She reached forward, set down her wineglass, and picked up the remote for the player. Tapping the button seemed to wake it up from sleep as well as start the film.

He was drawn in quite quickly, though drawn out again on more than one occasion; she leaned forward for her glass of wine, then leaned back again a little closer to him, then when she finished the wine she set down the glass then rested against him.

"Oh," she said, as the two primary characters began to dance together at a charity event. "I forgot about this bit."

He was about to ask what she meant, but then Thomas Crown began to kiss Catherine Banning at length, and he knew what was to come. He looked down to her surreptitiously; her cheeks were flushed pink. When he looked up to the telly again the love scene was just beginning; it seemed interminable, and not because he found the actors particularly appealing.

"Sorry," she whispered at the end of it, then laughed nervously. "That was a little awkward."

"Don't worry about it," he whispered in return, then slipped his arm up around her shoulder; she settled further against him in a very snug and comfy way.

The rest of the film seemed an eternity. He loved the slightly surrealistic, Magritte-like aspect of the imagery at the conclusion, but his thoughts were mostly occupied by the way she was against him… and whether or not he should even consider kissing her, as it did not seem right to start if he had no desire to stop.

As the credits began to run, she shifted in her seat and he thought she was about to rise from her position; in fact, she simply turned, ran her hand over his chest, over the cotton of his shirt, then raised her eyes to look at him with a little smile. 

"I enjoyed that," he said, then hastily added, "the film."

"Not this?" she teased, running her fingers in the opposite direction over his chest.

"Well, that too," he said, his voice starting to fail him.

She brushed her fingers over his chest again, leaned towards him, then kissed him, grasping his opposite shoulder so tightly he could feel her fingernails biting through his shirt. He brought one arm up around her, spanned his hand across her upper back, while the other hand came up to stroke her face, then combed back through her hair. It was quite clear to him that he was not alone in his escalating desire, especially when she let go of his shoulder to rake her nails over the short hair at the nape of his neck.

He sighed and drew back to meet her gaze; her face was again flushed, but this time the flush was paired with the passion-drowsy heaviness of her lids and the smile playing on her lips. "Bridget," he said, for a lack of anything more coherent.

She traced her fingers from his collar up to his face, over his cheek and along his jaw; her touch zinged a trail of little sparks. Then she kissed him again.

It seemed quite clear to him what her intent was, and that it meshed so closely with his own was a blessing (and a relief) to him. He pulled her quite close to him, matched her kiss for kiss, relishing in the soft sounds of pleasure she made, often captured by his mouth. Before he consciously knew it she was leaned back against the gently reclining arm of the chaise-style sofa; they still fervently kissed one another, his hand covering and caressing her breast, her hand on the nape of his neck again tracing maddening circles with her fingernails.

"I think we…" she murmured. For a moment he was afraid she might finish the sentence suggesting they should say goodnight, that he should go home, but then she smiled, glancing towards her bedroom. She did not want him to go at all. Quite the opposite.

He could manage only, "Mm hmm."

She laughed a sexy, throaty little laugh. "Don't worry. You don't have to carry me."

"Try to stop me," he joked.

He lifted her with ease; her legs wrapped around his waist and his hands held her backside. She threaded her arms around his neck and smiled. "Don't hurt yourself, now," she said in a mock-stern tone. "That would be _very_ disappointing."

She leaned and kissed him again, to which he was quite receptive, except for the discomfort he began to experience as she continued her tender yet thoroughly arousing attentions.

"I'm sorry," she said, breaking away. "I'm being, um, unnecessarily cruel, aren't I?"

"Mm," he said, unwilling to commit to more as he walked towards the back of the flat. She kissed his cheek, then his earlobe. "That's not helping," he grunted. She chuckled quietly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A separate story because of the rating, but this slots in right here: [Chapter 4.5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211073).


	5. Chapter 5

Waking the next morning in an unfamiliar room was entirely too confusing until he recalled the night before, and in doing so he relaxed back utterly into the pillow. Bridget. It may have seemed hyperbole to think of their inaugural lovemaking as 'earth-shattering', but it certainly had rocked him to the core in the best possible way. The subsequent rounds were gentler, more patient, but no less pleasurable.

He looked over to where she slept; her hair was askew and she had a little mascara smudged under her eyes, but she looked absolutely beautiful to him. He reached forward and tenderly smoothed her hair away from her face. She stirred and awakened.

"Sorry," he said.

"Are you?" she wondered sleepily.

"Hm. No. Not really." He then leaned to kiss her.

She, however, jerked back. "Oh, wait. God, no."

"What?" he asked, worried she had sudden regrets.

She clamped a hand over her mouth. "Dragon breath," she said, muffled.

He laughed, pulling her hand away. "I don't care," he said, then kissed her to prove the point. It seemed she might succumb again to his advances, but instead, she drew away.

"I'm sure I look a fright."

"You look like you've been shagged within an inch of your life," he murmured close to her ear before placing his lips against her neck, drawing the skin up against his teeth.

"Mm, I guess that's okay, then," she said weakly; it was the last thing she said for quite some time, even after she could regain her breath again.

Afterwards, Mark left her to sleep and ventured out into the kitchen to make some coffee, stopping for a moment in her bathroom to splash his face with water. As an afterthought he pulled on a dressing gown, an oversized pink flannel one hanging on the back of the bathroom door; it fit him fairly comfortably, even if it did only reach the top of his calves.

Mark was glad that he had thought to do so, glad that the dressing gown was not too short, because the closer he got to the kitchen, the more he became aware of the fact that he and Bridget were not alone in the flat.

If Mark could have retreated, he would have, but too quickly Pam Jones—for it was in fact Bridget's mother—turned around, clearly expecting her daughter, and looking shocked when it was not. Her brows came together; he would have expected her to be more pleased about this development, given New Year's Day. He hoped dearly she had not arrived as they were in the throes of passion. Given Pam Jones' surprise at his appearance in the kitchen, though, it seemed likely she had not, and for that he was grateful.

"Good morning," he said, his skin ablaze with the heat of his embarrassment.

"Mark Darcy," she asked in a scandalised tone, "what in the world are you doing here, and in my daughter's robe, no less?"

"I…" he said, then cleared his throat. "We have been seeing one another."

Her brows rose, then came down again. She folded her arms across her chest, somehow looking even more formidable, and angry on top of it.

"What brings you here?" he said, hoping to change the subject.

"I came into town today to meet Una for some shopping in a bit, and hoped to have breakfast with my daughter," Pam said icily. "I didn't realise she would have…" She narrowed her eyes. " _Company_."

"You still can," he said, taking on the tone usually applicable to calming down a knife-wielding maniac. "I was, um, about to make some coffee. Would you care for some?"

"I thought you didn't even like Bridget." She pursed her lips. "I thought she didn't like you!"

"Well, plainly," he said, starting to lose his patience, "we have changed our minds."

From the back of the flat he heard Bridget's panicked voice: "Oh no, oh _no_ , not this, _not this_ …" He heard a scramble from the rear of the flat, then a slight crash. She emerged a few minutes later wearing a thick nightgown, something clearly so brand new that it still had creases in it, had cleaned up the makeup under her eyes, and had tamed her hair somewhat. "Hello, Mum."

"Bridget, what is going on here?" Mrs Jones demanded. "Why is there a man in your dressing gown?"

Bridget, to her credit, did not appear to back down. In fact, her mother's question seemed to rile her up; she put her hands on her hips. "Mum, you have been pressuring me since Summer Bank Holiday to go out with Mark." This was a surprise to him. August? "You _shamed_ me into wearing that awful dress, and you and Auntie Una pushed the two of us together under the most unnatural of circumstances: at the Turkey Curry Buffet. Obviously, it went badly. But then we met and talked in our own environment and on our own terms…" She glanced towards Mark; he saw the hint of a smile. "Things went much more smoothly." She turned back to her mum. "But your ultimate goal? Reached. I'm seeing Mark. And yes, we slept together."

"Oh my _godfathers_ , Bridget!" she said. "Language!"

"Mother, I am not a child," she said, equally firmly. "I am seeing a man you wanted me to see. Why are you so upset?"

For the first time in his experience, Pam Jones seemed to be at a loss for words. 

Mark tentatively broke the silence. "Why don't I make that coffee, then?" he asked.

"I would love a cup of coffee," Pam said in an oddly cool voice. "But warm up the milk before you put it in… otherwise I'll get indigestion." She went over to the table to, Mark surmised, wait for her coffee. "Candle wax all over the table, durr, I don't know. You should not leave candles unattended, Bridget."

Mark looked to Bridget, who rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I'll make the coffee," she said quietly. "Go and…" Her eyes flicked down. "…put on your trousers." She smiled a little. "You look a bit silly in my dressing gown."

He smiled. He was tempted to give her a quick kiss, but with her mother right there and watching like a hawk, he didn't dare.

Mark dressed, wondering idly if he'd ever again see the errant cufflink that had gone astray in their impatience. When he returned to the kitchen the coffee was just finishing and Bridget was attending something at the microwave. When it went off, he saw her pull out a coffee mug with a bit of milk in the bottom. 

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly, glancing over to Pam Jones, who sat at the table primly.

She nodded. "You want it black, yes?"

"Yes."

"We can have breakfast when she goes," she said. "I'm sure she won't stay."

He raised a brow. 

"Trust me," she said.

"I do," he said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

"Bridget," barked Pam Jones. "Is that coffee ready yet?"

Another roll of the eyes. "Yes, Mum." She dumped in some sugar then poured coffee into both cups.

"I'll serve myself," said Mark.

As he took the mug she'd pulled down for him and poured his coffee, he heard Pam ask, "You did warm up the milk first?"

"Yes, Mum."

He glanced over to see Pam take a sip. "Well, Bridget, you do know how to make a good coffee, I'll grant you that." Pam took another long sip. "You warmed the milk in a pan?"

"Oh, yes," she fibbed. Mark tried not to laugh.

"Mm." She tipped the cup up, clearly finishing it off. "Well, I must whizz," she said. "I'll call soon."

"Okay. Bye, Mum."

Bridget watched as she picked up and swept out; when the door shut behind her, Bridget let out a long sigh. "I absolutely _hate_ when she does this," Bridget said.

"She walks in on your morning-after often?" Mark teased.

Bridget pursed her lips, but then couldn't control her smile, then her chuckle. "You know what I mean."

"Why not just ask for the key back?"

"Oh, Mark, I could never do that," she said. "It would practically be disowning her."

"A sign: 'Enter at your own risk, especially on a weekend morning'?" he asked.

"It's a thought," she said, having a sip.

"It could have been much worse," he said.

"Oh? How?"

"I could have left off the dressing gown," he said. She groaned. He added, "And Una could have come up with her. They're in town for shopping."

"Oh, holy Jesus." She put her hands over her face. "You realise, don't you, that in the retelling, you and I will have been shagging on the table in front of her."

At this, he began to laugh. "Oh, honestly, it was a bit embarrassing, but it really wasn't that bad."

"Easy for you to say," she said. "That wasn't your mother."

Mark heard his mobile go off. "You get that," she said, standing. "I'll fix some breakfast. How does a chocolate croissant grab you?"

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the phone. "That's fine," he said, then answered the call. "Hello, Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark!"

He should have looked at the caller display first. "Hi, Mother." He glanced up just in time to see Bridget with a big, mocking grin on her face. "Good morning."

"I have _just_ had a call from Pam Jones," she said. "She told me she found you in her daughter's flat this morning wearing nothing but a dressing gown. Is that true?"

"Yes, it is," he said stoically.

There was a long, interminable silence, during which he braced himself mentally… but he needn't have worried. "Oh, Mark, that is fantastic news! I am so glad you smoothed things over and gave it a chance. One other thing, though."

"Oh?"

They spoke for a few more minutes until breakfast was ready, then gracefully ended the call. As he relayed his conversation to Bridget over more coffee and the croissants, she pouted. 

"What, did you _want_ her to react insanely?"

"No, of course not," she said. He wondered if deep down if she really meant it. "Anyway, I guess I'm not really that surprised. Your mum's always been way more sensible."

"Mm," he said. "That she has. Oh, she also asked me if something else was true."

"What?" Bridget asked, then took a bite. He waited for her to chew and swallow before speaking.

"She wanted to know if we were, as Pam said, and I quote, 'practically having intercourse on the dining room table.'"

Her face went bright red, and she covered it again with her hands. "Oh God," she said. He began to chuckle. Her muffled voice went on, "It's not funny. She's really going to say this to Una, and everyone, and…"

"Well, you know what our duty is, then."

She pulled one hand away from her face just enough to look at him with one sceptical eye. "I am afraid to ask."

He grinned. "I'll even put your dressing gown back on."

She seemed at that moment to realise what he meant. "Oh _God_ , no."

He stood, went over to her, and crouched before her. "I'm teasing," he said, taking her hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. "Well. About the dressing gown anyway."

She grinned, looking absolutely radiant with the fading blush staining her cheek. "Never would have expected something like this from you," she said, then stood as he did and slipped her arms about his neck.

"I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?" he murmured, then kissed her.

………

"Your mother," Mark said as they snuggled up in bed.

"Must you bring her up now, here?" she asked.

He laughed lightly. "I just meant… this isn't… I mean, she's not angry at you, doesn't really hate me, does she?"

She reared back to look at him. "My mother? No. She throws her little tantrum. Just you watch, though. Next time we speak, she'll act like it never happened." She raised her hand, stroked his face, raking his stubble with her nails. "Mm," she said. "You're all scruffy."

"The world must be ending then," he said. "After what you said once, and all."

The recollection of her declaration about ever seeing him unshaven or his hair in disarray signalling the end of days made her laugh lightly. "It suits you." She then leaned and placed a lingering kiss on his chin. He hummed low in his throat. As she moved to kiss his throat, the side of his neck, nibble on his earlobe… it also made him think of something she had once tweeted about.

"Guess you are capable after all."

"Very," she said. Then she stopped. "Wait. Capable of what?"

" _Constitutionally_ capable."

"Of…?" she asked. Then realisation dawned, evident by the way her eyes widened. " _No_."

"I'm afraid yes," he said.

She looked utterly mortified. "My God. I never would have guessed you were a Tory."

He chuckled a little; he had a feeling that her horror would be short-lived. "You say that as if I were a leper."

"I slept with a Tory," she said in a darkly awed tone. "My God. I always imagined myself burning the sheets if I—"

"Darling," he said softly with a smile, stopping her.

"'Darling'?" she said. 

"Yes, darling. I think I've earned the right to call you 'darling', despite being someone—"

She stopped him this time by silencing him with a kiss. "I think," she said, "I am willing to make an exception." 

He pretended to think about it. "I can live with that."

………

**Someone's been awfully quiet this weekend #shagathon cc:@bridgetjoneshf, @markdarcylegal**

Mark laughed when he saw this from Jeremy in his Twitter timeline the next time he checked it, which, admittedly, wasn't until late Sunday. He hardly cared.

The weekend had been blissful, and not only because of their change in status from 'just friends'. He had enjoyed making love with her very much, but spending time with her in even the most mundane situations cast the rest of his life's dreariness into sharp relief. They had fun together, talking, and even debating at times.

As for the weekend, there was also the phone call from her mother late Sunday morning, which she put on speaker for his general entertainment; a daring risk, but she knew her mother better than anyone else:

"Oh, hello darling, guess what?"

Beat, during which Bridget whispered to Mark: "Watch what happens if I don't say anything right away."

"Oh, hello darling, guess what?"

Another pause. Pam spoke again.

"Oh, hello darling, guess what?"

Satisfied he got the picture, she said in a sweet voice, "What, Mother?"

Pause. "You haven't got me on one of those speaker-phone things, do you?"

"No, of course I don't." She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle. "What did you phone about?

"Oh! Well! I was just calling to make sure you'll be here for lunch on Saturday."

"Wait, what? Lunch on Saturday?"

"Yes," Pam said in a long, drawn-out manner.

She whispered to Mark, "I'm positive she didn't ask me about lunch."

Pam said, "What was that, Bridget?"

"Nothing," said Bridget. "What's Saturday, anyway?"

Pam clicked her tongue. "Do I _need_ a special reason to have you up for lunch?" Pause. "You can even bring Mark if you want."

She looked to Mark. "I… guess I…" She became less uncertain, though, once Mark nodded approval. "I guess I can say yes for us, Mum."

"Oh goody. We have to do it on Saturday, mind, because on Sunday, Una and Geoffrey are doing a 'spring is here' picnic in the rockery."

"Mum," she said, "spring isn't here for another two weeks or so. It'll be frigid cold."

"But they're busy _that_ weekend, Bridget, durr."

"Mum, I have to go," she said.

"And did you know, Julie Enderby might be having triplets! Imagine! _Triplets!_ "

"I'd rather not," she said, looking back and forth quickly as if searching for another escape route.

He made an executive decision, reached over, and picked up the handset, which disengaged the phone's speaker mode. "Mrs Jones?" he said in the firmest, most authoritative manner he could manage. "This is Mark. Thank you very much for the invitation. I couldn't be more pleased to come. I look forward to seeing you on Saturday. Now, I need to put down the phone, because otherwise Bridget and I will be late for our brunch reservation. Nice speaking to you. Goodbye."

"Oh!" Pam said excitedly. "Goodbye!"

With that he set down the receiver, then looked triumphantly at Bridget.

"Reservation?" she asked, looking down at the rumpled sheet covering her naked body. 

"A little while lie," he said, running his hand back over his mussed hair. "Though I can make that happen if you like."

"Mm, I'll pass," she said. Then she smirked. "I liked that, you know."

"Liked… what?" He was perplexed.

Holding the sheet to her chest (why she persisted in this was a mystery to him), she moved closer to him. "You all bossy and stern," she explained, brushing her lips against his. "Very sexy."

It was probably just as well that they had not actually had a brunch reservation, because they most assuredly would have missed it. Now though, he was alone in his house, which felt four times as empty as it had just a few days ago.

His mobile chirped with a text message.

Silly, it read, but I miss you already. xx

He smiled, poised his thumbs to reply… then instead switched to the phone application.

"Mark?" she asked upon picking up.

"Mm-hm," he said.

"Everything all right?"

He paused. "Fine," he said. "I just preferred to hear your voice rather than typing at you."

There was a long pause of total silence. "So," she said quietly. "Your house… fairly near to me?"

He was surprised by the turn of conversation. "Um, yes. Holland Park Road."

"Ohhh," she said, almost awestruck. "And… I bet you have a pretty nice bathtub?"

He chuckled, thinking she was going to recommend a nice, relaxing hot bath for him. "It's Jacuzzi style."

"If you draw a bath," she said, "I can grab a minicab and be there in about twenty minutes."

He liked that idea much better, but said sternly, "Don't be ridiculous." 

"Wh—" she began before he could finish. 

He chuckled. "I only meant I'll come and pick you up." He cleared his throat. "Pack an overnight bag?"

She sounded very shy when she spoke again. "O—okay."

It also sounded to him like she was smiling.

………

_Second week of March_

Twitter conversation dropped substantially over the following week; conversation between the two of them, anyway, which moved to a substantially more private venue. Publicly she still continued to tweet wry little observations, effusing about celebrities, and griping about Smug Marrieds, but here and there she'd drop a veiled reference that was meant just for him. 

Quite frankly, he could relate to the smugness.

By the time they got to Friday night, after seeing relatively little of one another due to prior commitments and unavoidable work deadlines (court, after all, waits for no man except the judge), they had dinner in. There was some debate that afternoon as to where dinner might be: at her flat, or his house.

He told her which he preferred.

"You're mad," she said, exasperated. "Let me get this straight. You would rather come to my flat, with smaller, lumpier bed and mismatched furniture, than go to your house, which is bigger and more beautiful than all good sense and has both a massive, tarmac-sized bed and a luxury bathtub?"

He chuckled. "Well… when you put it like that, I do sound mad," he said. "There's just something so… so wonderfully—"

"If you say 'cosy'," she said, "I may have to vomit."

"It _is_ cosy, though," he said. "My house is large and expensively decorated, but… it sometimes feels like I'm living in a film set. It's lacking a certain warmth. It's lacking _soul_. Your place has that warmth and soul, darling."

Silence. He waited for her response.

"You," she said at last, "are a fantastic sweet-talker. I'll see you at half five."

Dinner was takeaway; it might have been Thai, though he couldn't say for sure, because he was so focused on being alone with her again that he barely tasted his dinner. It wasn't even just about sex; it was about intimacy, closeness, and comfort.

Though he'd be lying if he were to say he didn't enjoy the sex.

After eating they curled up on the sofa under the pretext of watching a programme together on the telly, but it didn't take long for the programme to be cast aside for a kiss, a nuzzle into her neck, a caress on his back. She drew back, kissed his cheek, and said quietly, "I'll be right back."

She slipped from the sofa, and headed towards the back of the flat. He heard a door shut, and out of curiosity he rose to find that she'd gone into the loo; he debated whether or not he should return to the sofa or meet her in the bedroom.

Then he heard her say, very loudly, " _Fuck._ "

He debated for a few seconds the merits of knocking on the door, but didn't get a chance because it opened up and she nearly barrelled out right into him. She clapped her hand over her heart. "Jesus, you startled me!"

"Sorry," he said. "What's wrong?"

She pursed her lips. "Nothing." Then she smiled, and while still as lovely as ever, it looked a bit forced to him. "Let's just go sit and finish watching the telly, shall we?"

She patted his arm then went past him for the sofa. He started to feel like warning klaxons were going off, but about what, he had no clue. He followed and sat beside her, but was hesitant to resume where they'd left off. She seemed suddenly interested in the programme, so he slipped his arm around her shoulder and settled in for viewing.

He rested his cheek against her hair; as the minutes passed, he could not help leaning forward, brushing his lips along her hairline.

"Mark," she said quietly.

He stopped, sat upright. "Fine," he said, then adopted a commanding tone of voice. "But you're going to tell me what's the matter."

She sighed, then shifted in her seat a little to turn and face him. "Fine," she said. "It's just that… Aunt Irma has come for a visit."

His mind spun. Had she taken a mobile call whilst in the loo? How did he fail to know that she had an aunt named Irma? "How long have you known about this… visit?" he asked.

"Well, it was due next week, but…"

"It's all right," he said. "I can go home after the programme, and you can get your flat ready for your aunt."

She stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "Mark," she said, "I don't actually have an aunt." She looked emphatic. "The, er, _Communists_ have arrived."

He stared right back at her, perplexed, wondering if she had gone suddenly aphasic, speaking in this strange code-like language. "Communists, Bridget?"

"Yes, you know." Slowly she started to smile. "Received my monthly statement. Flying the Japanese flag. Closed for renovations."

Now he was truly beginning to worry. "Bridget," he said calmly. "You aren't making sense. Are you feeling okay?" He placed his hand on her forehead; she didn't feel particularly feverish.

At this, she started to laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry; the dangers of all-boys' schooling rears its ugly head," she said, then went serious again. "I should be more direct," she said, which sent up a flare of panic. "But I also don't want you to flip out." Another panic flare. She went on. "Surely even you know what 'that time of the month' means."

"That's _all_?" he asked automatically. He then took her hand, tugged her to him, enfolded her in his arms and gave her a playful pat on the bottom. "Naughty girl," he growled into to her ear. "You gave me a real fright." He nuzzled into her neck, running his hands over her back.

"Mark," she said.

"Mm?" he asked.

"You seem to be failing to grasp the implications here."

He stopped, realising precisely what she meant: no sex. He drew back, met her gaze. "So what?" he asked. "Doesn't mean I can't kiss you, does it? I do have a few other tricks up my sleeve, too, boys' school notwithstanding."

She blinked a few times, then smiled. "Don't suppose it does," she said. "Er. You certainly may."

It was a fortunate thing, then, that they were so close to her bedroom.

………

"Seems like a lot longer."

He glanced to the side, then turned his attention back through the windscreen again, as his silver sedan shot down the highway towards Grafton Underwood. "What does?"

"You and me," she said. "I mean, this is only our second weekend sleeping together."

He grinned. It did seem a lot longer, even when taking into account their—for lack of a better term—courtship prior to that intimacy. The sense of a much longer time with her was in no way a detraction. Rather, it was a much more solid foundation to something… more.

When they arrived she preceded him to the door. As she knocked, he took her free hand to hold it. She turned to look at him and smiled, and looked back when the door opened.

It was her mother, beaming a big smile. "Bridget!" she said to her daughter, then looked to him. "Mark! So glad you made it. Come in, come in."

He helped Bridget with her coat as Pam practically vibrated in place waiting to usher them into the sitting room. As they turned the corner, Mark realised exactly why this was.

They came face to face with his own parents and Una and Geoffrey Alconbury, sitting there in various chairs, each of them wearing a grin that would have put the Cheshire Cat to shame. Her father was there too, bearing a glass of wine and a lit cigarette; he smiled too, though his own was tempered with slight disapproval. The ambush-of-sorts left him feeling a bit like a rabbit in the headlights. Colin Jones stepped forward and handed her the glass and lit cigarette. "Thought you might need these," Mr Jones said to his daughter, then looked up at Mark before retreating. Mark though the treatment a bit odd, though he supposed her father was feeling a bit protective of his daughter. He had not been one of the co-conspirators, after all.

"Shall I get something for you, Mark?" Pam asked in a tinkling voice. 

The first thing he thought was to ask for a double scotch, but as it was not yet noon and they hadn't had lunch, he settled for, "A red wine, if you have it. White will do if you don't."

"Coming right up!" she said.

Una was the first to pounce. "So tell us all about it!" she asked, a feral gleam in her eye. "After the Turkey Curry Buffet, all hope seemed lost!"

"Bridget," his mother Elaine said gently, as if soothing a frightened filly, as she took a long drag from the cigarette. "Why don't you come sit by me?" She indicated the empty sofa cushion. Bridget did, and as she did Elaine put her arm around Bridget's shoulder for a quick, friendly little hug, offering her an ashtray to flick the end off in. Bridget then tipped her glass up for a sip of wine, though she did look a bit more settled after the hug.

Mark decided to speak, and gave them the briefest of histories, though simplified and condensed: "We reconnected through a mutual friend, and we spoke a lot online. We came to realise—"

"That we were right all along!" said Pam cheerfully, bringing Mark his drink. He accepted and took a long, steadying sip of the red wine. He hated to admit it, but Pam—and by extension, Una and his mother— _had_ been right.

"When we got to talking without the pressure of an _audience_ ," Bridget chimed in pointedly, "we realised we had… well, not really a lot in _common_ , but at the very least are compatible."

"Oh _ho_!" said Geoffrey.

"When we talked we didn't agree on everything," said Mark, shooting him a poisonous glance, "but we at least had good conversations." Geoffrey's expression suggested he was perhaps jealous. _Good_ , Mark thought. He looked back to Bridget, gave her a little smile. "Okay. _Great_ conversations." She smiled back.

" _Spirited_ debates," she said, not breaking their gaze.

"That they were," he murmured.

"Well!" said Pam loudly, clapping her hands. "Shall we have lunch, then?"

They went to the table, set for eight, and Pam told each person where they were to sit. Mark held out his hand, indicating Bridget take her seat, and when she did he pushed the seat in for her. As he took his own seat he brushed his hand fondly over her shoulder, and when he glanced up again he saw that Colin was observing him. He considered that he'd probably face some parental scrutiny, but the reality of it made him a bit nervous. More nervous, in fact, than some of his face-to-face meetings with foreign ambassadors. Parental approval was important to him. He chuckled, thinking she would probably accuse his Tory DNA of playing a part in that.

"What's so funny?" she whispered.

"I'll tell you later," he said.

Pam served up an impressive beef roast with Yorkshire pudding, the sort of meal usually reserved for Sundays (he recalled what she'd said about Sunday). It was a real effort to dazzle, he realised, a thought that was reinforced by the tenderness of the slow-cooked roast, the quality of the cut, the deliciousness of the seasoning, and the perfect texture of the pudding.

"My gran was a domestic science teacher," Bridget said to him. "You can see my mum learnt from her."

"And you?" he asked.

Everything went dead silent. He wondered what on earth he had done wrong in just trying to make conversation.

"I…" she began unsurely, her eyes darting around to the other guests.

"I've taken her out a lot," he explained to the family. "We haven't cooked together."

"I _tried_ teaching her," said Pam. "No idea how much of it stuck, really."

"Obviously, I haven't starved yet," she said in response.

"Obviously," said Geoffrey.

"I shall have to find the extent of your culinary talents at the soonest opportunity." He looked over to her and gave her a sly wink, covering her hand with his own. She smiled in a sort of relief.

Dessert was brought out in short order; raspberry pavlova that evidently Mr Jones had made. It was exquisite, and there was praise all around. Bridget seemed to agree but looked a bit down. After the meal, he caught her alone in the kitchen. He gently grasped her shoulder, tucked her hair behind her ear, and asked her what was wrong.

"I really can't cook or bake like they do," she said.

He smiled, stroking her cheek tenderly. "Do you know? That really isn't important to me. I don't expect you to be a '50s housewife, despite my party affiliation." She smiled, then laughed a little. "I like you just as you are," he continued. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye revealed a retreating Mr Jones. Part of him was mortified that this personal admission had been witnessed by someone else; part was happy that her father had been the one to do so.

"At least we weren't snogging, I suppose," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "But after that, you deserve this." She got up on her toes and gave him a kiss, more than a peck, but less than said snog. "Come on, I think we can face the inquisition one more time before we go."

They came out of the kitchen, expecting a barrage of silent looks, but instead they were chatting amongst themselves. Colin Jones turned to them and gave Mark a smile.

His father was the first one to speak, coming up to them and patting Mark on the shoulder. "Well, m' boy," he said. "She's a fair sight better than that bony colleague of yours who had her claws out for you." How had his father learnt of Natasha? "Maybe at last with Bridget here, you'll be inspired to work on some grandchildren already!"

Of the lot of them there, the one person he had not expected to embarrass him was his father.

"Poor Mark," she said; her arm was threaded through his arm, they were walking to the car, and he had no memory of what had occurred in between. Putting on coats. Saying goodbye. Taking the carrier bag with what he presumed was leftover pavlova. "You look traumatised." 

"I think I am," he said. "I'm sorry for that."

She chuckled. "Don't be," she said. "I was kind of flattered. I think… it was a good sign. Your dad seems to like me. And I think… you won mine over today."

He smiled. It had been a pretty good day, after all.

It was much later, as he drank some early morning coffee on Sunday, that he reviewed his Twitter timeline and saw she'd posted the following during the drive back to London, which made him chuckle:

**Lunch went quite well indeed. Hurrah! Good thing parents already friends. (His & mine; obvsly, Mum & Dad friends already.)**

He grinned and decided to reply, something she'd see when she next looked at her phone. **Glad, too. So looking forward to your cooking us a lunch like that. ;)**

He set the mobile back on the counter, went to take another sip, when the Twitter application chirped a noise at him, indicating a reply.

**Shut up and come back upstairs to bed. #imaginingcrimsonblushnow**

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Thomas Crown Affair_ love scene](http://youtu.be/szuxc1x7RDU) (poor quality)
> 
> [OMGZ THIS PIZZA!](http://www.basilico.co.uk/pizza-and-sides-menu-for-delivery/pizza-2/)
> 
> Just an amusing parting quote: _Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.—Robert A. Heinlein_


End file.
